


Metal Bones and Wolves' Teeth

by gingersprite



Series: Wolves and Wildflowers [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Chronic Pain, Discussion of Abortion, Discussion of Pregnancy Complications, Dissociation, F/F, F/M, Fix-It, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Infertility, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Unplanned Pregnancy, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-09-18 23:50:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20321578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingersprite/pseuds/gingersprite
Summary: Two letters arrive at Winterfell, bringing with them monumental changes for the Starks. Sansa struggles with how to best care for her family; Arya has an important decision to make; old traumas come to the surface for Theon; Gendry finds himself caught in the middle.





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the tags, friends, cause this one gets heavy. There's some nasty arguments, some pretty negative self-image issues, and lots of hurt feelings to go around. And that's not even getting into all of the possible triggers, which I've done my best to correctly tag. But, fear not! While there's plenty of angst, there are no unhappy endings to be found here!

The raven came in the early hours of the morning, when the sky had only just begun to lighten. Sansa had been sitting by the smoldering fire, her attention divided between the ledger she was reading and her lover, still asleep in their bed. It was unusual for Theon to still be abed while Sansa was awake, but the previous day had been particularly taxing for him. The Northern cold seeped into his bones much deeper now than it had when they were children, before parts of him had been broken and healed wrong, and while out walking Pearl his bad foot had given way beneath him. 

The fall hadn’t seemed serious at the time, more harmful to his ego than anything else, but by the evening dark bruises had bloomed along his knee and elbow, and walking had become so painful he could scarcely hobble along even with his walking stick. By nightfall the pain had worsened to the point of near-agony, unmanageable even with medicinal balms and cool compresses. Eventually Sansa had resigned to pestering him into taking milk of the poppy so that he could even sleep. The maester had prescribed it just for such occasions, but Theon was always resistant to the idea, unnerved by how insensate and helpless the drug left him. 

By the time Theon’s stubbornness gave way and he had dropped off into a deep, if not exactly peaceful, sleep, Sansa was quick to follow. But, her own sleep was fitful, interrupted by the need to check that Theon was still breathing, and after awhile she had simply given up on getting a proper night’s rest in favor of starting the day’s work early. That she was able to get a head start while also keeping watch over Theon was simply the most efficient option.

Sansa jumped in her seat at the sharp tap of a raven’s beak on the windowpane. Moving quickly so the tapping didn’t wake Theon, Sansa made her way to the window and relieved the raven of its letter. Clutching her dressing gown close against the chill, she watched as the bird flew off in the direction of the aviary, before latching the window tightly.

_‘Dark wings, dark words.’_ Sansa thought grimly, the old saying coming to mind as she fiddled with the twine wrapped around the note, the cold parchment warming in her fist. Despite feeling admittedly foggy from her restless night, she recognized it as odd that the bird would come to her window rather than Maester Wolkan’s. For the raven to have come directly to her window, it must have been one of the few trained to deliver only to her, so she knew it couldn’t be the letter she was expecting from Yohn Royce. Jon had one of these birds, but given the current state of her relationship with her brother, she was almost positive this raven had come from Storm’s End.

_To Her Majesty Queen Sansa, Lady of Winterfell and Protector of the North,_

_I write this to you because of a consern I have about Princess Arya’s wellbeing. Upon returning from a three-months surveying mishion along the coast, she decided to make an unplanned trip. This in it self would not consern me, excepting that she seemed to be in distress, and disclosed neither the reason for this trip nor the destination. Ser Davos Seaworth him self was on the survey mishion with her, and told me that her behavior had been worrysome. If she has a set destination in mind, I must assume that it is Winterfell; should this prove to be correct, know that I wish only to confirm that she is safe. When you see her, please convey this to her, along with my deepest love._

_Gendry Baratheon, consort to Princess Arya Stark and Lord of Storm’s End_

Though the letter should have only added to her mounting list of worries, she actually felt a swell of relief; obviously the knowledge that Arya’s behavior was odd enough to upset even Gendry was concerning, but this was a problem she could manage. Gendry’s assumption about Arya heading to Winterfell was probably correct, as Sansa couldn’t imagine where else Arya would go if she was in trouble: Sansa knew it was what she would do. The Starks were always stronger within the walls of Winterfell.

Sighing, Sansa tucked the letter away in the nightstand drawer; depending on when the letter had been sent, it would be several days before Arya arrived. Until then, there was nothing she could do for sister. Careful not to disturb Theon, she settled back on the bed and tucked the blankets tighter around him. Pearl sleepily blinked her eyes open to watch Sansa from her favorite spot curled up on Theon’s feet. The direwolf had a strong protective streak for any she considered part of her pack, which had only worsened when she realized Theon was hurting. After confirming that her masters were safe, the wolf burrowed back into the blankets and slept on.

Theon shuffled closer to Sansa in his sleep, and she draped her arm over his shoulder to draw him in. She smoothed his sleep-mussed curls back from his forehead, caressing the hollows under his eyes. As much as he hated it, the drug-induced rest was exactly what his body needed to heal. Rationally, she knew he was resistant to taking milk of the poppy because of how helpless it made him; even with the knowledge that they were safe behind walls and guards, it was difficult for him to be so vulnerable. Despite that, she couldn’t help thinking that this was some twisted way of punishing himself for his past deeds.

Seeing him in such pain, his face grey and his breaths labored, was difficult for Sansa, especially knowing that this state had resulted from something relatively small. Though he seemed healthy and hale to the casual observer, the agonies Theon had suffered had wrought permanent changes on his body which would impact him as long as he lived. This incident was a terrifying reminder of this, and brought her back to the last time she had seen him in such pain, when he fought for life in the wake of his battle with the Night King.

In a moment of fever-induced panic, Theon had made her swear that she would return his body to the sea, so his soul would be able to rest in the Drowned God’s halls alongside his mother. Sansa had heard it said that all men, when faced with their own mortality, cried out for their mothers. She wondered if Robb cried for their mother, if Jon cried for the nameless, faceless woman who bore him; did Rickon even remember their mother’s face, or in his last moments had his mind gone to the wildling woman’s?

So many loved ones, lost. Looking at Theon now, it was almost overwhelming how much Sansa loved him; in sleep the tension lines around his eyes relaxed, the nervous edge he wore too often during waking hours smoothed away. She had the irrational desire to keep him bundled up against her, where he’d be safe from falls and judgment and pain; she wanted to break open her own ribcage and store him against her heart, press their skin together until they fused into one being. The macabre vision was the only way she could imagine to combat it, this desperate fear which came at her in crippling waves, screaming that she would lose him too. She wrapped her arms even tighter around his limp body, and dropped a fervent kiss to his brow. 

It was hard to decide which was more frightening: the idea of losing him, or of what she would do to keep him.

\---

Arya arrived with little fanfare, as was always her preference. Her sister had chosen to come through the South Gate, bypassing the bustle of Wintertown entirely. Judging by her saddlebags she had traveled light, and had probably ridden through the night to get there. The moment a guard spotted her riding up, Sansa was immediately at the ramparts ready to receive her. She forced herself to wait just until Arya reached the castle walls before rushing down to greet her.

Sansa noticed that Arya seemed to have grown her hair out some, her dark locks hanging loose past her shoulders, thick and glossy. The last time the sisters had seen each other, Arya had been fresh from an expedition that had browned her skin and left her even more wiry than usual. Now, despite her recent voyage, her skin was on the paler side, almost sallow, yet her face seemed just a tad fuller. She was also bundled up in more furs than either Stark women usually required, confirming Sansa’s suspicions that she was ill.

Upon the arrival of a stable hand, eager to assist her, Arya dismounted on shaky legs and scarcely took any time to remove her pack before passing the reins off to the boy. Without Sansa even needing to call out, Arya’s searching eyes spotted her; even from across the courtyard, Sansa could see the dark bruise-like coloring under her eyes. Arya managed a wane little smile before tugging her cloak even tighter around her body, tension radiating from head to toe.

Sansa raced to her side, enfolding her into a warm embrace without hesitation. Despite the several layers between them, she could feel Arya trembling, though from cold or exhaustion she could not say. Surreptitiously, Sansa wrapped the edges of her own cloak around her; rather than protest that she was smothering her, Arya burrowed further into her arms.

“Surprise?” Arya murmured dryly. Sansa laughed, though nothing about this situation felt remotely funny.

“Not really. Someone told me you might be by.” Sansa said, pulling back to scrutinize her. She looked truly dreadful, her glassy eyes betraying a tiredness that went bone-deep; she was only standing through sheer determination.

“Come, let’s go inside. I’ll have tea brought up, and you can tell me about your latest voyage.” 

Normally Arya would have been excited to talk about her latest exploits, but instead she just stared dully ahead. 

“Yeah, sure.” Arya mumbled, allowing Sansa to lead her into the Great Keep.

Upon entering the Keep, they found Jeyne Poole waiting for them. As the head of Sansa’s household, Jeyne had instructed the staff to have Arya’s old rooms readied for her arrival. Despite being confident that the room was ready, Sansa planned on taking Arya up to her own rooms first, where a fire had been smoldering away in the hearth for hours now and there were plenty of extra blankets.

“Arya!” Jeyne exclaimed, flashing a sweet smile as she pulled the other girl into a hug. “We’ve been expecting you, how have you been?”

Arya mustered the strength to return a tight smile, but it was obvious her heart wasn’t in it. Sansa swooped in to save her from having to respond.

“She’s just back from a trip, which she’s here to tell me all about,” Sansa said placidly. “We’ll be heading up to my rooms now, you can find me there if anything should need my attention.”

“Oh, that reminds me!” Jeyne started, fumbling in her dress pockets for a moment before brandishing a letter. “Maester Wolkan asked me to pass this along to you.”

Sansa was quick to take the letter, her heart beating wildly beneath her breast. Though Jeyne’s official position was as head of the queen’s ladies, she was responsible for a multitude of duties that went unlooked, often by design. She vetted the household staff, and took stock of the townsfolks’ opinions; Jeyne was also responsible for handling much of the queen’s mail, a duty only she and Maester Wolkan had been entrusted with. If Jeyne was delivering this letter to her personally, then Sansa already had a good idea what it was about.

She kept her expression smooth, however, tucking the letter safely in her pockets as if it was of no importance. The two of them said their goodbyes to Jeyne, before swiftly moving on.

\---

As promised, the royal chambers had been kept warm and inviting for the both of them. There a hot pot of tea waiting and even biscuits, most likely sent up on Jeyne’s orders. The maid who had delivered them stayed long enough to put away their cloaks and Arya’s small packs, before Sansa dismissed her. She invited Arya to take a seat while she inspected the letter; as she had expected, it was from Lord Royce, a response to her recent inquiries.

Sansa put the letter away unread. Whatever his answer, it would have to wait. 

Arya had made herself comfortable in Sansa’s drawing room, slumped into one of the plush chairs. Sighing in relief at the chance to finally rest, she unlaced her boots only the bare amount before shucking them off and propping her feet up on a stool. Shaking her head and smiling at her sister’s typical unladylike behavior, Sansa set about pouring two cups of tea.

“I didn’t intend to be rude to Jeyne back there.” Arya spoke up suddenly at her back. 

“I’m sure she understands, you’re tired from the journey.”

“It really is good to see her. Honestly, I hadn’t given her much thought these past few years; is that dreadful of me?” When Sansa only gave a shrug in response, Arya continued on unprompted. “Well, I’m glad she made it home to us.”

“So am I,” Sansa replied softly, settling down in a chair across from her sister. “After… after we were separated in King’s Landing, she was forced into some dire straits. For a while I thought her dead. I didn’t know what she’d been through until after we reunited. Did…” she hesitated, not wanting to upset Arya unnecessarily with the tale of Jeyne’s woe. “Did I tell you about what happened to her?”

“You said Baelish had her. He kept her in one of those foul brothels of his.” Arya’s face was tight as she accepted the offered tea.

“All that and more,” she said grimly. “Apparently, he’d planned to pass her off as you, should the Lannisters’ plans to ransom us come to fruition. But when circumstances, ah, changed, he left her behind. After Cersei destroyed the Sept of Baelor, she escaped the city and eventually made her way to the Vale; it was there that she met Mya.”

Arya froze; at first Sansa thought something was wrong, but then she realized that Arya had a small smile on her face. “I hadn’t thought of it before, but does their relationship make Jeyne my goodsister?”

Sansa couldn’t help her giggle at that. “I suppose it does! Oh, there’s something rather- well, not funny, nothing about this is funny. I suppose it’s ironic, that Littlefinger planned to create a fake Arya, only to be put in the ground by the real one. And then both of you found love with Baratheons.”

“Indeed.” Arya murmured. She stared into the depths of her cup, but made no move to drink.

“Arya,” Sansa sighed, tired of them dancing around the real question. “Not that I am unhappy to see you, but why-”

“I’m pregnant.”

“Huh.” Sansa leaned back in her chair, stunned. The two of them just stared at each other, Sansa searching for words while Arya had none left to say.

“I suppose congratulations are in order?” Sansa hedged. “I… hells, I don’t really know what to say to that.”

“You and me both.” Arya said, giving her undrunk tea an absent-minded swirl with her pinkie finger.

“Well, how far along are you?”

“Um, five months? I think?”

“Five _months?_ You _think?_” Sansa exclaimed. “That can’t possibly be, you’re hardly showing- well, I suppose under all those furs… oh! Are you cold, is this why? Can I get you a blanket, move you closer to the fire?”

“Sans-” Arya started, clearly exasperated by her fussing; but Sansa barreled on.

“Have you seen a maester?” she demanded.

“A cunning-woman, in port.”

“And she was the one who put you at five months?”

“That was her best guess-” Sansa cut her off with a sharp huff, clearly dissatisfied with this answer.

“Well, when was your last bleed?”

“It doesn’t _work_ like that-”

“Of course that’s how it works-”

“Maybe for other women!” Arya burst out. “Maybe for you, but not me. The bleeds have never…” she paused at this, and as much as Sansa wanted to fill the silence, she restrained herself. “The bleeds didn’t start until I was almost sixteen, and there was never any sort of pattern to them like Septa told us there’d be. Then they almost stopped entirely, after I was gut-stabbed-”

“You were _what?_”

“Gut. Stabbed.” Arya ground out tersely. “In Braavos. By a fellow Faceless Man. She left me to bleed to death, but I survived, and I took her face. Are you going to make me show you the scar, too?” Whereas earlier she had been comfortable lounging in her chair, Arya now pulled her legs up in front of her, the closed off position of her body a reflection of her unease. 

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t pry,” Sansa relented. “I ask so many questions because I’m worried about you. Childbirth is dangerous, we have to make sure you’re strong so you’ll have a healthy delivery.”

“I don’t need you mothering me, I’m fine. Just fucking tired.”

“Oh, so that’s why you decided to come here, fresh off a voyage, without telling your husband?” Sansa snapped. “Who, by the way, sent me a specially trained raven because he’s concerned for you and the baby- _oh gods,_ you haven’t told him!”

Arya didn’t have to say anything: the guilty look on her face was answer enough.

“Arya, what’s going on? Talk to me,” she begged, moving her chair in closer to her sister’s. “Why did you run off like that without telling Gendry? Are you worried about what he’ll think, or… or do you not want this?”

Sansa wasn’t proud of it, but her heart broke a little at that. She had just started getting excited about having a little niece or nephew, a new member of their pack to love and care for; having to give that up so suddenly was devastating. But this was Arya, her little sister: far more valuable than any daydream she might have. Whatever Arya needed, Sansa would make sure she was taken care of.

“I can see your mind plotting away in there, making plans like you always do,” Arya said. “But can you please just stop, for a moment? Stop thinking about next steps and shit. I… alright, yes, I panicked just a little when I found out about the- about it. This is all a lot to wrap my head around, and I just… I needed to be home. Somewhere I could think this through.”

She drew a weary hand across her face, the movement only emphasizing the dark shadows under her eyes. Sansa still felt the urge to make plans, to needle her for information, but she kept it from her face as best she could.

“Of course, this has been a stressful time for you,” she soothed. “You should get some rest, go clean up after your journey. Why don’t you take my bed for now? I’ll be around if you need anything, but for now I’ll let you be.”

“That sounds good,” Arya said, a grateful smile coming into bloom. “I’m dead tired. Probably smell rather ripe too.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything…” Sansa trailed off; Arya huffed a bit at that, but grinned at her teasing.

“Well alright then.” Arya said as she got to her feet. Sansa didn’t say anything about how she swayed on the spot or had to grip the back of her chair for support; which she felt was very diplomatic of her, considering that every instinct she had was screaming at her to protect her sister.

But that wasn’t what Arya wanted now; she could never accept being coddled at the best of times, and this was certainly not one of those.

“Well, you know where the washroom is,” Sansa said, though she nodded in that direction just in case. “And help yourself to one of my night shifts. I’ll just be about the place.”

“Doing all that queen stuff.”

“Someone has to, and apparently that someone is me. You, just rest. We can talk more once you’re feeling better.” She pulled Arya into a tight hug, which she was either too tired to protest, or genuinely needed the comfort.

Once she sent Arya off, Sansa sank down into her chair and forced herself to drink the rest of her tea. She listened as Arya moved around the sleeping quarters, until the tell-tale rustling of bedsheets signaled that she was actually lying down. Whether Arya slept any was another matter, but at least she was trying to rest. 

Sansa waited until there was no movement to be heard, before making a beeline for her desk, where the letter from Lord Royce was waiting. Her hands trembled as she broke the seal, and she forced herself to take a steady breath before opening it.

The letter was longer than she had expected, but it seemed that Royce had made sure to detail the process of his investigation. She appreciated his thoroughness, though that wasn’t her main concern at the moment. Her eyes flew to one line in particular, the one she had waited months to read.

_…following my extensive inquiries I can now report that, to the best of my knowledge, the boy is Lord Greyjoy’s son._

\---

Sansa decided to move to her solar, though not before instructing Brienne to keep watch outside her rooms; Brienne may have been Sansa’s sworn sword, but before that she was Lady Catelyn’s, and Arya would be her charge no matter where she roamed until Brienne breathed her last. The knight didn’t have to know the full story to understand that something was wrong with Arya, and that she would need the support of a trusted friend.

Sansa also instructed that Theon be sent up to her solar; given that he was still prohibited from strenuous activity he was most likely in the library rather than out in the courtyard running drills, but she was far too excited about this news to wait. So she sat at her desk, anxiously reading and rereading Lord Royce’s letter while she waited.

It didn’t take long for Theon to arrive, the book he had presumably been reading tucked under his arm along with his cane. The bruises were fading and walking was no longer painful, but Maester Wolkan had sternly insisted that he keep using the cane. Theon had acquiesced; however, rather than using it for its intended purpose, he had taken to using it as everything from a doorstop to a backscratcher. It may have been silly, bordering on petulant, but these small acts of rebellion made Sansa positively giddy: the more he reclaimed the sense of humor he had so enjoyed as a youth, the further he left the terrors he’d suffered behind.

Despite the presence of the cane, his gait was smooth as he crossed the solar to meet her. She folded up the letter calmly, so as not to alert him, and tilted her head up to accept his kiss. 

“How may I serve you, Your Grace?” Theon said, the sly grin on his face telling her exactly why he thought she had summoned him unexpectedly.

“Later, darling,” Sansa said as she let her hand rove appreciatively down his chest. “I have some news we must discuss.”

“Is it about Arya?” he asked, his earlier levity fading. “Is there something wrong?”

“The situation is rather, ah, personal. Suffice to say, she is dealing with some matters that aren’t my business to spread around.” She looked apologetic as she said this, but he merely shrugged.

“Wouldn’t want to make her angry. I’m just relieved it isn’t about another war, or the return of the Others.”

“No, nothing like that. Come, let’s sit down.” Rising to her feet, Sansa took his hand in one of hers, her other hand surreptitiously holding the letter, and drew him over to the settee.

“That’s better,” she said as they settled down, farther apart than they normally would, though their knees still touched. “Now then, you know that I have been coordinating with the neighboring regions about rebuilding after the war, especially with regards to the many children who were orphaned. While speaking with some of the people caring for these children, I heard about one in particular that got me thinking. 

“This was a few months ago, and since then I’ve been in contact with Lord Royce, who used his connections to investigate my suspicions. Today I received a letter from him, a confirmation. Theon, you have a son. He’s about seven years old, he’s been shuffled around from place to place ever since his mother died of fever when he was small. She was a maid here, and those who knew her confirmed that you were, um, involved during this time. 

“That alone isn’t much to go on, but Lord Royce had people retrace the boy’s whereabouts and they spoke about him. Anyone who knew his mother said she was confident that you were his father. When Lord Royce asked the boy about his family, he didn’t know your name, but he said his mother told him that his father was prince of an island ruled by squid. He has the Greyjoy look, I’m told; Lord Royce has seen him, and says he is the very image of you as a child.”

Aware that this was a lot of information to take in at once, she sat back and let him process. She expected him to be shocked or perhaps concerned by this news; but instead his response was completely apathetic.

“Alright then. Why are you telling me this?” he asked dully.

“Because there’s a high likelihood that this boy is your son. I trust Lord Royce’s investigation-”

“I don’t doubt that he is my son.” Theon cut her off, something he hardly ever did. “In fact, I’d be rather surprised if I didn’t have any bastards, given my past. What I don’t understand is why you went to the trouble of tracking one down and telling me about it.”

Theon wasn’t as good at concealing his feelings as Sansa was, and she could see tension behind his eyes; or, perhaps she had just become accustomed to reading him. But, this did little to tell her why he was reacting so.

“Well… I told you, he has no one.” She tried again. “His mother died, she had some distant relations but none would take him in. The poor boy has just been passed along from shelter to shelter; he’s utterly alone in the world.”

“Then send him to the islands; he can work on a ship, make a good, honest life for himself.” Theon seemed so utterly finite in his response; it barely sounded like he was talking about a human child, much less one that shared his blood. Sansa stared at him incredulously.

“The boy may be Ironborn by blood, but he knows nothing of your ways,” she countered. “We should bring him here, where he can get to know you. Then once he’s old enough, maybe he can go to the islands.”

The stricken look on his face faded, and was replaced by an anger she had never before seen directed at herself.

“You would have history repeat itself? Another Ironborn boy ‘fostered’ behind Winterfell’s walls?” he said with a sneer. “A childhood spent prisoner, as I was?” He was goading her, and she knew it, but that did little to temper the coldness of her response.

“Do not speak to me of life as a hostage, I remember what it was like. My father was no Cersei Lannister, he loved you like a son.”

“No, he didn’t.” He said, a note of sadness rising out of the anger. “I loved him as a father, and I know that he cared for me in his own way; but he couldn’t love a child he knew he’d one day have to kill.” 

“Why are you trying to pick a fight over this?” she demanded. For the life of her, Sansa couldn’t understand why he was responding to what should have been good news by trying to reopen old wounds. “I thought you would be happy to know you were a father!”

“Just because I fucked the boy’s mother doesn’t make me his father, any more than Balon Greyjoy was mine. I won’t doom him to the knowledge that the man who fathered him is not a man at all.” Theon clambered to his feet, moving away from her as if the distance would put an end to this conversation.

“Stop that! I won’t have you speak of yourself this way!” she hissed, getting up to follow him even as he tried to get farther away.

Theon laughed at that, a far colder sound than she had ever known him to make. An ugly look twisted those beloved features into something utterly unrecognizable.

“Why ever not? It’s the truth!” he spat. “Suppose we did take him in, raise him, play at being a happy family; he’d have questions one day, about why we never married or had a child of our own. And what will I tell him then? How I betrayed my oaths and murdered two little boys, and as punishment the gods sent a mad man who cut my cock off and fucked me like a woman, made me sleep in my own filth ‘til I forgot my name?”

“Stop it, just stop it, damn you, _shut up!_” Sansa shouted, her hands flying up to cover her ears and block out his vicious words. 

The sudden movement made Theon flinch violently and he stumbled backwards, his face gone pale. Instantly Sansa forgot her anger at him and rushed to comfort him, but he warned her off with a shaking hand. For a moment she saw a shadow of the broken creature she had first been reunited with, the one she had helped free him of; the realization that she had brought this upon him was a dagger to her heart.

“You said you wouldn’t yell at me. You _promised._” Theon managed between frightened pants. He pressed his back against the wall like he wanted it to swallow him up, his eyes darting between her and the door.

“I know, and I’m so sorry. I lost my temper,” she soothed, trying to make herself as unthreatening as possible. “I got upset, but I shouldn’t have shouted. Please, darling, let’s just sit down and talk about this.”

Theon shook his head frantically. “No, no I-I can’t… I need to be alone, now.”

He staggered away, wrenching open the door and taking off without a backwards glance. Sansa could feel her heart screaming at her to go after him, but when she tried to follow it seemed her feet had been nailed to the floor. The letter had become a crumpled mess in her fist, and she struggled to smooth it out. Lord Royce’s neat writing swam as her eyes filled with tears; once a beacon of something more, now they seemed a cruel jape made at her expense.

_‘Dark wings, dark words.’_

How could she fix this, when she didn’t know what she had broken?


	2. Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm blown away by the responses I've already gotten on this fic, both here and on tumblr! I love you guys, and this tiny corner of the fandom!
> 
> There's a brief reference in this chapter to another one of my fics, ["Lay Back, Love"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19155124). As with "Wildflowers", you don't have to read it to understand this one, but it is in the same universe, so you should ;)

After that disastrous encounter, Sansa tried to stay in her solar and do something productive, but her thoughts were in such disarray she found herself unable to focus on anything. She had expected that she and Theon would be discussing arrangements to visit the Eyrie and meet the boy, and making plans for bringing him back to Winterfell. Perhaps it was all too much, too fast; she’d sprung this on him and he’d felt cornered. Theon didn’t handle being cornered very well. He either cowered or lashed out, conditioned responses to avoiding pain.

What Theon had said about another Ironborn boy growing up in Winterfell… she couldn’t deny that she’d seen the parallels, but she still had such a blind spot when it came to her own family; it hadn’t occurred to her how Theon would view it. That he’d see it as history repeating itself, whereas Sansa had thought of it as an opportunity to do things right. Children should be with their family, and Theon was the only family this boy had left. Since Theon was also her family, that made the boy her responsibility.

Yohn Royce didn’t go into great detail about the boy, but he’d told her enough: he was uneducated but curious and eager to learn, with a gap-toothed grin seemingly always on display. His locks were bronze, a color not typical among Northmen, and once cleaned and brushed they sprung up in ringlets; and his eyes, his eyes were a storm at sea, like generations of Greyjoys before him. She hadn’t met him for herself, but she didn’t need to; there were so many injustices in their world that she could do little about, but she couldn’t bear the thought of doing nothing while a little boy with Theon’s eyes was left to wander alone.

That all seemed rather foolish now; she’d grown up a lot in the past few years, and grown up fast, but at the moment she felt very small and childish.

Searching for Theon now would only make him feel even more like a hunted animal, and Sansa already felt guilty enough about earlier. Not about being upset by his words; that was why he had said them, after all, lashing out as best as he was able. But letting those words get to her, reacting in anger instead of recognizing them as the defense mechanism they were… that, she wholly accepted the blame for.

The irony was that if this was any other issue, she would have turned to Theon for advice. That was obviously not an option here. However, there was someone else in the castle who she could talk to, someone who also needed her help.

Sansa left the solar before she could talk herself out of it and strode briskly back to her rooms. 

Brienne was there, just as she’d left her. She smiled softly at her in greeting, saying, “Good evening, Your Grace.”

“Hello, Brienne. Has Arya gotten up, or talked to you?” Sansa asked, her genteel mask sliding into place. It was impeccable as always, but it felt wrong; Brienne was one of the few people she didn’t have to put up a front for. Doing so now made her stomach twist. 

“No, my lady. Although she’s far lighter on her feet than anyone I’ve ever known, so she could be moving about in there and just keeping quiet.”

An absent smile quirked at Sansa’s lips. “Yes, perhaps. I’m heading back in now, so I suppose I’ll find out. But,” She hesitated, torn between the fear of abusing Brienne’s loyalty for her and her worry for Theon. “Can you do something for me? Could you find Theon and… just, check on him? Make sure he’s alright?”

“Certainly, Your Grace.” Brienne said, perplexed. “Is there something I should know?”

“No.”

Brienne nodded. “Understood. Please give my best to Lady Arya, and tell her I look forward to seeing her once she’s rested.”

“I will. You don’t have to worry about her, Brienne. She’ll be alright.”

Still looking somewhat unconvinced, Brienne took her leave. Sansa let her mask slip just a moment, then straightened her shoulders and entered.

Someone had been by to remove the tea and tend the fire, but otherwise her sitting room showed no signs that anyone had been moving about. She closed the door and leaned against it heavily, then looked at the letter still in her hands. It was still just as hopelessly crumpled as before, only now the paper felt damp from having spent so long clutched in her palm.

“H’llo?” came a sleepy voice from her bedchamber door. Arya looked thoroughly sleep rumpled, though whatever rest she’d gotten had done nothing to improve the bags under her eyes. Long wisps of hair escaped her hastily made plait and stuck up in wild directions. Arya had taken Sansa up on her offer and borrowed one of her nightgowns. The garment was almost comically oversized on her slight frame, and she had to hike it up to keep from tripping over the hem. She’d had to roll the sleeves up to free her hands and the neckline kept slipping off one shoulder.

She looked like the little girl she hadn’t had enough time to be. More than that, she looked fragile in a way she never had before.

The swell of her belly was more obvious now, the light shift doing nothing to disguise it. Sansa tried not to openly stare, but if the way Arya awkwardly tried to cover her bump with her folded arms was any indication, she was unsuccessful. 

“H-how did you sleep?” Sansa stammered.

“Poorly. Is it that obvious?” When Sansa appeared confused at the question, Arya gestured broadly at her midsection.

“Oh! Um, I suppose so. I didn’t mean to wake you, please go back to bed.”

“If I do, will you come sit with me? You clearly have something on your mind.” Arya said wryly. “Don’t look so surprised, I know when something has been eating at you.”

“Alright then,” Sansa sighed, letting Arya lead the way. “But you’ll tell me if you’re feeling tired.”

“Sure I will.”

Arya hopped up on the bed and rearranged the mess of pillows and furs in an effort to get comfortable, while Sansa went to pull over the chair she kept by the fireplace. Arya tsked at her and motioned that she come over and join her on the bed. 

“Come on, it’s like when we were little and would all climb into bed together for comfort after one of Old Nan’s scary stories!”

Sansa rolled her eyes, but gave in, hiking her skirts up so she could sit cross-legged.

“You sure you have enough blankets on this bed?” Arya teased. She wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and pulled it up over her head to prove this.

“Theon gets cold.” Sansa said quietly, hugging a spare pillow tight to her body. 

Arya groaned. “Come on now, let’s hear it. What happened?” She wiggled her foot under the blankets and poked Sansa with it until she relented.

“We had a… disagreement,” she started, then cut herself off with an angry shake of her head. “No, that’s putting it mildly. We had a fight.”

“Over…?”

“I learned that he has a son, whose mother died when he was young. I want to bring him here. Theon doesn’t agree.”

“So why do you care?” Arya prodded. “Besides the fact that you’re soft hearted.”

“This is his son we’re talking about!” she said indignantly.

“Yes, and in the interest of being honest with ourselves, he probably has more than one bastard child roaming about. But why go through the trouble of finding this one, bringing him to Winterfell? You could send him to the islands, or see to it that the orphanages are rebuilt-”

“That is on my list-”

“I wouldn’t have thought otherwise,” Arya assured her. “Nevertheless, that isn’t what you’re proposing now. Why is it so important that the boy comes here?”

“Because children should be with their parents!” Sansa exclaimed. “They should be able to know them, to grow up comforted and loved! That was stolen from us; it was stolen from Theon, by our father! I can’t give that back to any of us, but I can damn well make sure this boy doesn’t have to go through that!”

Fat tears rolled down her cheeks, stinging her already worn out eyes. She rubbed her face furiously with her sleeve; Arya kept quiet, her grey eyes impossible to read.

“He has Theon’s eyes, Arya.” Sansa whispered. “He’s just a little boy, with no home or family. And if I don’t do something, knowing what I know, and something happens to him… then I did that to him. Me. I won’t be that kind of queen, and I won’t be that person.”

“He won’t call you ‘mother’.” Arya said gently.

“I don’t expect him to. That’s not why I want to do this.”

“So you’ve said. To me, at least. I’m guessing that’s not how you explained it to Theon.”

“In my defense, he didn’t really give me a chance. But that doesn’t mean much.” Sansa admitted.

“I imagine children must be a difficult subject for him. I…” Arya lowered her gaze to her lap; sitting down, the curve of her belly was even more obvious. “I know something about that.”

Sansa worried her lip. “I went and made this all about me, didn’t I?” Arya kicked her leg again.

“No worse than usual.” The jibe brought a small smile to both their faces.

“How are you feeling?” Sansa asked, her tone all business. “For real, none of this ‘I’m fine’ nonsense. I can have food brought up, or tea, more pillows- whatever you need.”

“Pillows and tea won’t do much good. I feel like all seven hells rolled into one, then boiled in hot oil.” Arya groused. “I’m tired all the time but I can’t sleep, my stomach is always upset, and I can’t seem to decide whether I’m burning up or freezing. Those first few weeks on the ship, I truly thought I’d caught some strange disease. Davos actually figured it out before I did.”

“_Davos?_”

“He and his wife had seven children together, apparently he learned a thing or two. It was Davos who noticed how sick I’d been and suggested I go see someone. I didn’t tell him when the cunning woman confirmed it, but I’m pretty sure he knows.”

“Well, I’m glad you have someone on that ship to look after you. Gods know you’re far too comfortable just throwing yourself into danger!” Sansa teased.

“He was a _smuggler_, Sansa, it’s not like he shirks away when things get rough. It is nice to have him around though; he reminds me a lot of Father.” Arya said somberly. “I miss him, so much; all of the time, but especially now. Isn’t grief supposed to get better over time?”

“That’s what everyone always says. There’s some truth to it, some days it feels like it isn’t so bad,” she offered. “Other days it feels like it just happened.”

“He would’ve been a good grandfather, don’t you think?” asked Arya, her tone almost shy.

“Yes, he would have been. He’d have loved his grandchildren fiercely,” Sansa agreed. “Is this your way of telling me you’ve thought about it? I don’t want you to feel like I’m pressing you one way or the other; I just want you to know that if you’ve decided you don’t want this, you can tell me honest and I won’t judge you, I’ll find someone and make sure you’re safe. No one else has to know, not even Gendry.”

“I appreciate that,” Arya said. “But you don’t have to worry about that. I’m keeping it. I suppose I’d already decided that; I could have taken care of it as soon as I knew, but I didn’t. I think I just… needed to be home, when I made my choice.”

Sansa nodded. “We’re Starks: Winterfell gives us strength.” She hugged the pillow in her lap and shot Arya a pleading look. “So, does this mean I can start getting excited about being an aunt?”

“You’re already an aunt, remember?” Arya said dryly, referring to Jon and Daenerys’ soon-to-be-born child.

“That’s not the same, and you know it! This is my little sister, having a little one of her own!” she exclaimed. Arya rolled her eyes, and the action was so indicative of their childish squabbles that Sansa gave into the urge to hug her sister. They stayed like that, wrapped in each other’s arms, for far longer than usual. Arya felt different to hold, with the swell of her belly in between them: she was both softer and sharper than usual, a strange combination that only added to this new-found vulnerability. Everyone knew that, of the two of them, Arya was the fighter; but now it was Sansa’s job to protect her sister.

\---

Theon did not have a set destination in mind when he stumbled out of the solar, leaving the door thrown open in his scramble to get out. It was so wrong: Sansa was _safety_. She was kindness, and patience, and gentleness, and unabashed love.

Now, all he could think was that he needed to be somewhere else; anywhere would do, so long as that was away from the smoldering ruins of his marriage. Of course, what they had wasn’t a true marriage, for all that they had sworn to love each other as husband and wife. Their vows had been said after a romp in the hot springs, not in front of a heart tree or in the presence of a septon. 

But whether their marriage was official didn’t matter. Sansa was his partner in the fight against the demons that haunted them; if he was the arrow that pierced their monsters, she was the bow that gave him strength and guidance. She could have chosen anyone, but she chose him; he, however, was utterly useless without her.

She deserved someone who could give her a family, to fill the castle with joy and laughter. He couldn’t give her that; and even if he could, he didn’t deserve that honor.

_Turncloak. Child-killer._

How had he deluded himself so, thinking that the Queen in the North would settle for a sniveling mess like him? She had stayed with him for this long, either out of grief or a misplaced sense of obligation, but soon she would realize her mistake. This boy was the beginning of the end for them; once she saw him, she would see all that Theon could never give her. Then she would send him away, and find herself a real man.

Theon’s vision had been slowly greying out the entire time he had been walking, any movement around him drowned out by the thudding pulse in his head. Distantly, he realized that his feet had taken him into the stables. Something cool and wet touched his hand where it hung limply at his side, and he jumped in panic. The freshly laid straw was slippery underfoot, and he stumbled back until he hit the stable wall. 

He looked wildly about for whatever it was that had touched him, and was met with a direwolf’s eyes. Pearl looked at him with those piercing blue eyes, then shoved her muzzle into his hand. The coolness of her nose mingled with puffs of hot breath against his palm, the combination of sensations odd enough that it made his racing thoughts pause.

Overwhelmed by a mix of relief and exhaustion, Theon sank to the ground. Pearl settled back on her haunches to better observe him. Despite only being half direwolf and having been the runt of the litter, Pearl had already outgrown even the largest of the kennel dogs. Of the litter that Ned Stark had found so long ago, Ghost and Nymeria were the only pups that Theon had seen reach maturity. Grey Wind had been a massive beast, grown to about the size of a pony by the time he died; whatever curious condition leached Ghost of color and left him mute had had little impact on his size, though perhaps if the other males of his litter had lived to maturity he would still have been the smallest one.

Nymeria, on the other hand, was harder to gauge the size of. Theon had only seen her in brief snatches, first when she had brought her pack to their aid against the Others, presumably at Arya’s behest. Theon had a vague memory of seeing the direwolf up close: the beast had crept up to where he lay prone, his heart’s blood coating the ground of the godswood. For a moment, her enormous face had filled his sight, until his entire world had become consumed by those glowing yellow eyes. Then, Arya had knelt next to her wolf and discovered he was alive; it was hard to tell whether Nymeria was a giant, or Arya simply a very small girl. 

As such, Pearl’s eventual size was something of a mystery, especially given that her sire was a regular wolf. Someday she might grow to be nearly as large as her mother, maybe equally frightening; but for now, she still seemed a pup, if an oversized one. She made a soft whine in the back of her throat and cocked her head inquisitively, then nudged him insistently until he gave in and scratched her muzzle.

Despite himself, a smile grew across his face. Theon gripped her ruff with his shaking fingers and buried his face in the light grey fur. He drew a shuddering breath, inhaling the calming scent of wolf and horse, and a hint of pine.

“Where have you been all day, girl?” he asked softly. “Did you sneak off into the woods?”

Predictably, Pearl had nothing to say for herself.

“Lord Greyjoy? What’re you doing on the floor?” came a voice from the stable door. Mya Stone stood there, her startling blue eyes standing out against the evening darkness. She shared little in common in the way of looks with her half-brother Gendry, stocky where he was tall, barrel-chested like the other mountain folk, with a round face and a sharp nose; but both had inherited those Baratheon blue eyes.

Sansa had said that Theon’s son had his look. She had called it the Greyjoy look, but in truth both he and Yara took after their mother. They had their father’s eyes, yes, but their fine hair and the divot in their chins belonged to Alannys Harlaw through and through. Theon had been the only one of her children to inherit her curls, though his own were much looser than hers, which had grown in tight ringlets. Did this boy have Alannys’ curled locks, her dimpled chin? When people looked at his face and saw Theon’s, were they actually seeing hers?

“D’you need some help?” Mya’s hesitant question drew him back. 

“No, I’m fine. I didn’t fall, I meant to sit down.” He said, rather lamely.

“You… meant to sit on the stable floor?”

“Aye?” 

Mya laughed at that and walked over to where he sat; her heavy boots clomped with every step, sending vibrations through the floorboards. She offered him a hand, which he gratefully took, and let her help him up. 

“Were you planning to go for a ride somewhere, m’lord?” she asked, gesturing to where the saddles and tack were stored.

“No, no. Just came here to think, I suppose.”

“’Tis a good place for it.” Mya said appreciatively. “Horses are much better company than humans. ’Specially when you’re feelin’ down.”

Theon was ready to protest, but Mya just shook her head and tsked. He supposed his mood was rather obvious, even if he wasn’t currently in a panic; grown men typically didn’t spend their evenings sitting on stable floors.

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.” Theon admitted.

“Well, the stables’ as good a place as any to mope about, but you oughtna stay here,” Mya advised. “Ser Brienne is looking for you.”

_‘Likely on Sansa’s orders.’_ He thought grimly. Brienne would probably be disappointed with him for quarreling with her lady, but then again that seemed to be her default expression towards him.

No sooner had Mya spoken it then Brienne poked her head into the stable.

“My lord,” she said with a note of exasperation. “There you are. Is everything alright?”

“I-I…” he stammered at first; but then a wave of frustration rose up in his chest- at the way she always treated him, at the miserable events of the day, at the disintegration of his relationship- and his voice hardened. “No of course not, Brienne, why would it be? Now what in the hells are you looking for me for? Come to yell at me some more on her majesty’s behalf?”

Instead of looking chastised, Brienne’s expression changed to one of concern. “She yelled at you?”

Theon sighed. “Yes, only because I goaded her. Don’t worry about it, it’s none of your concern.”

Brienne sighed, and looked ready to say something back, but apparently thought better of it. Instead, she gave Mya a nod- friendly, but a clear sign of dismissal- and let the other girl exit as she herself entered. He saw then that she held his walking stick, and she held it out to him. As much as he loathed to admit it, sitting on the stable floor for however long he’d been there had caused his joints to lock up, and he wasn’t likely to get far now without the staff.

Grumbling, he took the staff, though the sight of Brienne’s approving smile was nearly enough to make him toss it away just to spite her.

“C’mon now.” The knight said, patting him on the shoulder as she led him out the door, like they were friends or something. Pearl trotted along right behind them. 

“Where are we going?”

“To get a drink.”

“I don’t want a drink.”

“Didn’t say it was for you.”

\---

As nice as the moment they’d just had was, the angle of the hug did nothing for Arya’s back, and she had to break away and resettle herself against the many pillows. Once she’d done so, Sansa noticed the time and started getting ready for bed, finding herself a spare nightgown. Thankfully she had chosen a simpler dress today, preferring to save her fancier ones for days when she knew she’d have to look particularly impressive, and didn’t need to call for an attendant to assist her.

As she moved about the room, out of the corner of her eye she caught Arya holding her bump and looking at it with a tiny smile. Now that she had said her decision out loud, she could allow herself to actually be excited about her future child.

“I hope it looks like Mother.” Arya murmured.

“That doesn’t seem very likely, what with yours and Gendry’s coloring. No, I expect it’ll have the Northern look, like you and Father.” Sansa said offhandedly, tugging her shift over her head. For a moment she was caught up in imagining the face of the future babe, a girlish pastime she hadn’t indulged in since she was still young and naïve, her head filled with daydreams of her future lord husband. She pictured her sister holding a child that looked like their father, with a solemn mouth above a strong chin, and a head of thick, dark hair; she wondered if its eyes would be Stark grey or Baratheon blue. 

Whatever its coloring, she was certain it would look every inch a Stark, and with a sudden jolt she imagined the bittersweet joy she’d feel at seeing her beloved father reflected in this new child. Sansa found herself utterly enamored by the idea, so much so that she didn’t notice how at her words, Arya’s face went from tentatively pleased to devastated.

“No, no, that’s not fair,” Arya whispered, her voice breaking. “It shouldn’t have to look like me, that’s not _fair!_”

Sansa whirled around to stare at her, mouth agape at how suddenly her mood had changed. “I… what are you talking about?”

“I don’t want it to look like me!” Arya sobbed, in a way that would have made her sound like a petulant child if not for the thoroughly broken look on her face. “It should look like Gendry, or you and Mother and Robb. Not like, like _this,_” she waved her hand limply at her face, as fresh tears streamed down her cheeks. “I want it to be beautiful.”

Never could Sansa have imagined that they’d be here, Arya in tears over the idea of her child not being _attractive_. Since when did Arya, with her mussy braids and simple, utilitarian clothing, care about her looks?

“I’m sure it will be a lovely babe, any child of yours and Gendry’s would be.” Sansa soothed as she walked back to the bed, still completely at a loss as to what had gotten into her sister. Rather than calm her, Arya scoffed at her words, and seemed vaguely offended by her assurances.

“That’s easy for you to say! If it looks like me, it’ll have to grow up being called plain, or dour, or-”

“-horseface.” Sansa finished for her, a wave of guilt swelling in her chest. Arya sighed and nodded, still looking miserable but now somewhat relieved that they were finally on the same page.

“Everyone knows you were always the pretty one. And I’m, just… Arya.”

“Arya, I am so, so sorry for calling you all those names when we were girls,” Sansa said. “It was spiteful, and rotten, and I’d take it all back now if I could.”

Arya shook her head at that. “You were hardly the only one to do so, everyone always thought it. Father said I looked like Aunt Lyanna, but she was said to be a great beauty. And that’s obviously not me.”

“Now stop that, stop wallowing and _listen_ to me,” Sansa snapped, frustrated at her inability to make Arya understand. She could speak with nobles and commoners alike, negotiate with foreign rulers, stare down the Targaryen queen herself; but now, she was at a completely loss as to how to speak candidly with her own sister. “You _are_ beautiful. You were beautiful as a child and you’re beautiful now. I was a stupid and cruel little girl who didn’t think about how much my words could hurt. I don’t know what else to say to make you believe me.”

Arya sniffled, drying her damp cheeks on the sleeve of her borrow shift. “You were never stupid. And only somewhat cruel. Besides, I was hardly a helpless victim. Seven hells, I have no idea what just came over me now, forget about it.”

“No, clearly this has been weighing on you for some time. When I look back on our girlhood, all of our squabbles seem so inconsequential. I never imagined that those things I said stuck with you so. You always just shook it off and did whatever you felt like. I always envied you that; Mother and Father would never have let me do the things you did.” Sansa admitted.

“Really? You always seemed happy just doing as you were told.”

“Maybe,” she shrugged. “But I wasn’t allowed to mess up the way you were. If I did something wrong, nobody thought it was endearing or let it go. I just got scolded.”

“Oh.” Arya said thoughtfully. “If I’d have known that, I would have said something to Mother and Father.”

“I’m sure you would have!” Sansa laughed. “Mother used to say that telling you to do something was the best way of ensuring you did the opposite.”

Arya chuckled, but her face quickly grew solemn again. “I miss her. Mother. We always seemed to be at odds over something, it’s so silly now. I always thought she would never understand me, but I really need her now.”

“I miss her too,” Sansa murmured, as she leaned back against the same pillow as Arya. “Sometimes when I can’t sleep, I wonder what she’d think of us. If she’d be proud, or happy.” 

Gods knew their lives had sharply diverged from what Catelyn had anticipated for them. Of the two of them, somehow it was Arya who had ended up married to a lord and with a child on the way. Sansa doubted her mother would approve of her relationship with Theon; Catelyn would say that she was being selfish, not marrying and furthering the family line. But as excited as Sansa was for her sister’s coming babe- and, if she was honest, she even looked forward to the birth of Jon and Daenerys’ child- the idea of actually being pregnant herself sent bolts of dread through her body. Her mother had been Arya’s age when she had been pregnant with her first child, and then went on to do it four more times. Sansa had already sacrificed her body for her family over and over; she didn’t think she could bring herself to do it again.

Sansa turned her face so her next words were almost lost in the pillow. “I am so tired of hurting, and of being hurt, and of losing the people I love. I just want the world to let us be happy.” Arya hummed in agreement, and rested her head on top of Sansa’s.

“Tell me something good that happened to you while we were apart. Something happy.” Arya’s statement surprised her, but it was all too easy for Sansa to understand why. They both needed to remember something good, to chase away their lingering grief.

There weren’t many memories to choose from; while the terror and abuse she experienced loomed large in her mind, the moments in between were almost boring. There was a lot of sitting around and waiting, for the next beating or the next lie, for next time she had to run. But when she searched for a happy memory to speak of, she found one stood out clearly in her mind.

“My handmaiden in King’s Landing was a Lorathi woman named Shae,” she started hesitantly. Oh gods, but she missed Shae, with her biting humor and disregard for the grotesque pomp of the city. She liked to imagine that Shae had made it back to the Free Cities, safe and happy. But Sansa knew in her heart that this was not so; their world was not so merciful. 

“I… I was very lonely, and frightened, but Shae made me feel less so. She always wore these pretty, gauzy dresses; she liked pale, dusky tones, but once I saw her wearing blue. I’d never seen anyone wearing fabric that sheer, but for her it was normal. Somedays I wished I could wear clothes like that- you know how hot it gets in the city- but that wasn’t really an option. 

“One day, when I was feeling especially hot and miserable, Shae encouraged me to try on her dresses. Not in public, of course, just in my chambers. It just felt so nice, so freeing. She had me twirl around like a dancer, and the fabric flew around me so beautifully! Then we pretended we were court ladies at a ball in the Free Cities, where we could dance to exotic music. We made up games like that a lot, ones where we imagined we were somewhere else.”

Sansa could still feel it when she closed her eyes: how the light fabric wicked the sweat from her skin and made every gust of wind seem like an ocean breeze. Shae had taken both of her hands and spun her in circles, like little children did. At nineteen, the other girl had seemed far more mature than Sansa felt, but in that moment all notions of time and titles blew away. They were just two friends, squealing with joy at the slice of freedom they had found even in a prison.

“What other games did you play?” Arya mumbled. Her eyes had begun to droop, and it was clear that she was fading fast; Sansa suspected she would be soon to follow, the turmoil of the day having finally caught up with her.

“Sometimes we’d sit by the harbor, and watch the ships embark. We would make up stories about where the ship was going and the people on it. It couldn’t be anything too mundane, though, otherwise it wasn’t a proper game.” Sansa clarified. “Something like, ‘that ship’s captain was a cobbler who finally saved enough to fulfill his dream of seeing Volantis’. Or, ‘that ship carries an ancient treasure, guarded by an Asshai sorceress, who is escorting it back to her homeland.’ And no one could tell us we were wrong; those ships were free to go anywhere their captains chose.”

Arya yawned. “There’s nothing like seeing a ship leave port. The first time I saw a ship, I was struck by how big it was. I thought, how can something that enormous possibly float? But then once I was on it, and we were out in open water, it suddenly seemed far too small. And the ocean just went on forever, in every direction, as far as I could see…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #JusticeforShae, folks.


	3. Part III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is your reminder now to read the tags, if you haven't done so already. Special warnings in this chapter for panic attacks, dissociation, and spousal rape- basically, all things Ramsay-related.

Rather than steering him across the courtyard towards the Great Keep, as Theon had expected, Brienne instead took a sharp turn to the left. Their apparent destination was the kitchens; on some level Theon appreciated this, as the chill night air made his already stiff joints lock up even worse and the warmth of the kitchens was calling to him like a merling’s deadly song. But he was rather tired now, and his bed was in the Great Keep… except, it wasn’t his bed, it was Sansa’s. He maintained his own rooms for appearances’ sake, but he couldn’t remember the last time he hadn’t slept in his love’s arms.

Perhaps he wasn’t so keen on going back to the Keep after all.

The kitchens were nearly deserted, with only a few straggling scullery maids puttering about cleaning up. The servants ate in the Great Hall just as often as the castle’s noble residents did, but there were several long tables set up in the kitchen that functioned both as food preparation stations and a dining table. The wooden table was speckled with stains and burns, and the seats were simple benches rather than the elegantly carved chairs in the Hall, but it was plain to see why some might prefer to eat in here; while the Great Hall was impressive, it was meant for seating hundreds. The kitchens were much more intimate; at night without the sounds of pots and pans clanking together and harried shouts from the cook, it was actually a rather peaceful place to be.

Brienne gestured at him to take a seat, then set about procuring mugs and drink. Despite Theon’s earlier pronouncement, she got him a drink as well. Theon clasped his tankard with both hands but made no move to drink from it, preferring instead to stare into its depths. Perhaps if he stared long enough he could scry like a woods witch, and gain some insight into the future.

Meanwhile, Brienne settled back on the bench next to him and took a swig from her own drink. They might have looked like a companionable pair, were it not for the waves of misery emanating from Theon’s whole being. He could have put Jon Snow’s fits of brooding to shame.

“So, I don’t know about you, but I had the most interesting afternoon.” Brienne said.

Her conversational tone caused Theon to blink his way out of his stupor. The two of them didn’t make a habit of talking about anything not directly related to their duties. Brienne, because she was the strong, silent type, and Theon because he was… Theon. He didn’t know what had gotten into Brienne to make her want to engage in idle chit-chat, but he prayed that she wouldn’t try and make him talk.

“Princess Arya arrived, of course,” Brienne continued on. “An unexpected, but never unwelcome visit. But rather than being her normal friendly self, she seemed withdrawn, troubled. She shut herself away without so much as a word to anyone but Her Grace. Then the queen went off to meet you, very excited, only to return looking despondent. So when she sent me off to find you, I’ll admit my first instinct was that you were at fault. I see now how mistaken I was; but there are still many pieces missing from this puzzle of an afternoon. Perhaps you can provide them?”

“I don’t know anything about Arya’s situation, so I can’t help you there.” Theon said honestly. “As for Sansa’s mood, your initial thoughts were correct. We quarreled, and it was my fault. Are we done here?”

“The queen yelled at you.” Brienne repeated. “Why would she do that?”

“I- the things I said were especially cruel. I knew they were, even as I said them.”

“Then why did you say them at all?”

_‘Because it’s what I do,’_ he thought to himself. _‘When I’m backed into a corner. I do whatever it takes to save my own stinking skin.’_

But he couldn’t say that to Ser Brienne, the most honorable knight in Westeros. “The ‘why’ is unimportant, I said them and it was wrong.”

“I don’t hold with that.” Brienne countered, her voice unnervingly calm. “I’ve seen you disagree with her during council meetings, even raise your voice at her. But no matter how you two may argue, she never yells back.”

At Brienne’s words, Theon felt something slick and slimy twist in his guts. Sansa hadn’t yelled at him since they were Ramsay’s prisoners. Since before she knew the true extent of his torture: since he was Reek.

_reekweaksneakshriekmeekfreak_

“Well whether you hold with it or not, this time she did.” Theon snapped at her, gripping his tankard with white knuckles. “And I know I had it coming, I deserved her ire. It’s not that big of a deal.”

Brienne sighed and twisted on the bench so she was fully facing him. “Theon, it’s obvious that there is no love lost between us. But I respect you, and I trust you; and I know you well enough to know when you’re full of complete and utter shit.”

At least Brienne had the grace to look embarrassed by the crudeness of her statement, while Theon struggled to pick his jaw up off the floor.

“I have never seen you two treat the other with anything less than the utmost respect, not once. So for you to say something cruel enough to bring her to raise her voice, something truly catastrophic must have occurred.” There was a gentleness in Brienne’s voice that he had often heard directed at Sansa and Arya, but never at him. 

“I have a son.” Theon said, the first time he had admitted it out loud.

“Congratulations?”

“I’d rather face down another army of wights than have this conversation.”

“Tough. Where is this boy? Who’s his mother?”

“He’s at the Vale, with Lord Royce, and… I don’t actually know who his mother was. Sansa didn’t say. Just that she was employed here for a time, which doesn’t really narrow it down much. I don’t mean for that to be a boast,” he backtracked, suddenly aware how that could come across. “That’s not something I’m proud of, just a fact. I used to be a very different man.”

“So I’ve heard.” Brienne said; as a statement, devoid of any judgment or emotion. “It’s hard for me to imagine you like that; in the time I’ve known you, you’ve only ever had eyes for Sansa.”

“I still don’t understand it,” he admitted to the bottom of his tankard. “She could have had anyone else, but she chose me.”

“We don’t choose who we love,” she offered. “The singers were wrong about a lot of things, but not that.”

Theon was surprised that she would make such a blatant allusion to her short-lived romance with Jaime Lannister. He wasn’t entirely sure he liked being compared to the man, even in the abstract. Jaime may have died killing Cersei, thus reining in Daenerys’ desire to burn King’s Landing to the ground; but he had still stood by his tyrannical sister for far too long. He had still murdered Jory Cassel, and crippled Bran.

(Or maybe a small, secret part of Theon found the comparison far too close for comfort.)

“She could still give me up at any time.” Theon argued. “It’d be the smart move. Find a man who’s… whole.” His voice petered out to a whisper. “Someone who can give her children.”

He wasn’t sure if Brienne knew the truth about his gelding; it was still a heavily circulated rumor, but like hells was he going to put himself through the humiliation of actually addressing it. But, if her face was any indication, she already knew that he was sterile, and was just too polite to say so outright.

“But you do have children, or at least a child.” Brienne mused. 

“She wants to bring him here. I can’t figure out for the life of me why, but she does,” Theon confessed. “I thought ladies were supposed to hate their man’s bastards.” Catelyn Stark could barely stand the very sight of Jon.

“A bastard can be a very real threat to a lady and her children, not to mention a sign that her husband dishonored her. But you’ve never been unfaithful to the queen.” Brienne pointed out. 

“I suppose. I never understood why greenlanders got so knotted up about bastardry. Being a trueborn is preferable, of course, but there are plenty of bastards on the Iron Islands, and it’s hardly a problem. Children of salt wives. That’s what I thought Jon was, at first; the son of one of Lord Stark’s salt wives.” He grumbled. Lady Catelyn had definitely not been pleased when he voiced that assumption out loud. 

Brienne shrugged those broad shoulders of hers. “It’s all a rather odd system, isn’t it? So, what’s the real reason you don’t want the boy here?”

“If… if he comes here, she’ll start to see what she’s missing out on. She’s always wanted children, and I know she’d be a fantastic mother. Even if I could give her that, I don’t deserve to be her children’s father. It’s only a matter of time before she’ll want a man who can give her that. Someone who hasn’t done the things I’ve done.”

“What ‘things’? Rescued her from a madman? Protected her brother? Helped kill the Night King? Stop me when I’ve said it, I can keep going.” Brienne said dryly.

_reekweaksneakshriekmeekfreak_

“I-I… I’ve killed children. Two little boys, to save myself. That… there’s no excusing that. It’s unforgivable.” Theon murmured.

Brienne was silent for a moment, contemplating what to say next. 

“I’ve killed children too.”

Theon finally broke his gaze away from his drink to stare at her in disbelief. 

“W-what?” he stammered. “Stop, don’t. Don’t make up shit like that.”

“I’m not.” Brienne replied, a deep sadness in her eyes. “Just because you dress a boy up in armor and stick a sword in his hand, doesn’t make him a grown man. I’ve gone into battle only to find the faces of scared boys on the other end of my sword. But I killed them, just the same.

“I can’t absolve you of what you’ve done; and even if I could, I don’t know that I would. But, I also don’t see the point of you wasting your life over things none of us can change.”

Theon struggled to come up with a response to this; clearly, Brienne had fooled herself into thinking him a better man than he was. Perhaps she was projecting her own feelings towards Lannister onto him. 

“Still. I’m not worthy of her affections.”

Brienne groaned and rolled her eyes. “Now you’re just reaching. Worthy or not, you’re the one she’s chosen, so maybe you’re better off working at being the person she needs. Besides, do you really think she’d settle for someone she didn’t love? Someone she didn’t completely trust to respect her? After what she’s been through, I wouldn’t have been surprised if she never wanted another man to touch her.”

Somewhere along the line, Sansa had become the strongest person Theon had ever known. She wasn’t a warrior like Arya or Yara, or a dragonrider like Daenerys; people often thought that meant she was weak, but Theon had begun to think it was her human frailties that made her resilience all the more remarkable. A woman’s courage, something Theon would have scoffed at before. But it was woman’s courage that saved him when anyone else would have given him up for lost. Ramsay thought his abuse could ruin her; he’d underestimated her true strength. 

“He didn’t break her. She’s far too strong for him.” Theon said, a hint of awe in his voice.

“No, he didn’t. But that doesn’t mean she escaped him unscathed.” Brienne replied. Indignation boiled in Theon’s heart at this, and he didn’t hesitate to jump to Sansa’s defense.

“You think I don’t know that? _I’m_ the one who comforts her after a night terror, who helps bring her back when… when she thinks she’s back there.”

Brienne sighed and drained her tankard, needing the rest of her drink to carry her through this.

“That isn’t what I mean,” she said hesitantly. “You have to understand what rape is for women. It isn’t this abstract thing that happens to other people. It’s everywhere, a constant threat wielded to keep you in line. ‘Submit to me, bear me children, or else.’ Sometimes it almost feels like it’s inevitable. The things Ramsay Snow did to you… please, don’t take this as me minimizing your suffering. I don’t need to know even the half of what he put you through to know that it was abominable; but, what he did to Sansa… what he did to Sansa was legal.”

_reekweaksneakshriekmeekfreakreekreekreekreekreek_

The nervous churning in his guts that had been brewing all night finally got the better of him, and Theon doubled over and nearly emptied his stomach onto the stone floor. Somewhere off to the side Pearl whined, the miserable noise melding with the high-pitched ringing in his ears. A hand relieved him of his cup, which had threatened to topple from his limp fingers, then returned to settle between his shoulder blades. The broad span of its palm swept up and down his spine in firm strokes, coaxing his dry heaves into something resembling breaths.

Theon let his head hang down between his knees, allowing the pressure to take up residence behind his eyes. He remembered how Yara taught him to do a handstand when they were little, by planting his hands flat on the ground, fingers pointing away, and kicking his feet up and over until his body was vertical against a wall. It had taken a few tries, but it was easy once he got the hang of it. 

Getting back on his feet was the hard part. He was always so afraid that he wouldn’t catch himself in time and would fall flat on his face. It seemed preferable to just stay there, letting the blood pulse through his head, rather than right himself and risk falling.

That felt an awful lot like this now, right down to the furious throbbing in his head. Previously, he’d assumed that he couldn’t feel any more ashamed in front of Brienne, her having seen him at some of his lowest points; first after the escape from Winterfell when he was still somewhere between Reek and Theon, and then once when he’d tried to fight off the maester in his delirium post-skewering. 

This had been a grave error on his part. Apparently, Theon still had plenty of shame left in reserve, a veritable untapped well yet to be discovered.

While Theon focused on remembering how to breathe, Pearl planted herself between his legs and clunked her big head softly against his own. She repeated this a second time, then a third for good measure, and finished off the display by licking his cheek. Despite his unwillingness to face Brienne, Theon knew he was beat, even if by a direwolf.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…” Brienne said, her freckles a sharp contrast to the sudden paleness of her face. “I thought you needed to hear a woman’s perspective.”

As much as his clenching stomach muscles protested, Theon found he couldn’t summon up the energy to be mad at Brienne. She was right, after all: Sansa may have gone into her marriage to Ramsay unaware of his true depravity, but she had known that he would use her how he wanted, and that she would have little say in the matter. That she was able to give and experience pleasure now was a true testament to the faith she had in him to not hurt her. It was no wonder she was so adamant against marrying a stranger; Theon couldn’t imagine ever being able to bare himself to anyone but Sansa.

“No, I should be grateful to you, for providing some much-needed clarity,” Theon replied, his lip twisted wryly. “There are some things I can never fully understand, despite having lived through it with her.”

“And, perhaps, the same can be said of her?” Brienne prodded. Theon’s eyes narrowed.

“What’s your point?” he asked suspiciously. Brienne shook her head, the motion plainly displaying exasperation, but with a hint of fondness.

“You have a lot of assumptions about how the queen is feeling, but maybe you need to actually ask her.”

“Don’t tell me you’re coming for my job next.” Theon groused, though it rang hollow. Brienne was absolutely right, annoyingly so, and she knew it.

“There’s not enough gold in the world to make me chair a small council!” she said with a laugh, before continuing on soberly. “I know where my strengths lie, as do you. So, use whatever sense your god gave you, and talk this out. I don’t want to find you on the stable floor again.”

“It’s not the worst place to sit,” he quipped. “Smell leaves something to be desired, but at least it’s quiet.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Giving a final pat to his back, Brienne stood up and went about cleaning their tankards. When she did things like that, it was easy to forget that she was the daughter of a noble house. She could have just set them aside for the staff to care for in the morning, but Brienne was never one to leave behind a mess of her own making. She always saw things through.

With one hand firmly on his cane and the other settled on Pearl’s head, Theon got to his feet and headed for the door. He still didn’t relish the prospect of sleeping alone, but it seemed like less of a sentence now. It didn’t change the fact that the bed would be cold, and he would likely sleep poorly; but judging by the way Pearl seemed intent on sticking to his side, he wouldn’t be quite so lonely.

On his way out the door, he meant to just say goodnight, but as he passed Brienne a thought occurred to him. 

“Ser Brienne? May I join you when you break your fast tomorrow?”

Brienne paused, her arm stretched up to put away the cleaned tankards. She eyed him suspiciously, but it seemed she judged his intentions true. A small smile spread across her lips.

“That… sounds good.”

“Good. I’ve been meaning to ask you how things are going with Willas Tyrell?” he teased. Brienne refused to let her rapid flush keep her silent.

“You can ask all you like, doesn’t mean I’ll say anything.”

“I’m always up for a challenge,” he said with a smirk, which quickly faded into a genuine grin. “Goodnight, Ser Brienne.”

“Goodnight, Lord Greyjoy.”

\---

When morning came, Arya insisted that she read Gendry’s letter. After, of course, she finished being sick into the hastily retrieved chamber pot Sansa stuck under her chin; she’d been dealing with morning nausea for weeks, but now it seemed like the baby was exacting its revenge for the strain she’d put her body under, making her hack and cough for several minutes after the actual vomiting had ceased. Sansa had lost her prior squeamishness several years back, but even this made her face pale.

“All seven hells rolled into one?” Sansa said weakly, echoing her previous description.

“And boiled in hot oil.” Arya finished, gratefully accepting the water her sister offered and sipping it slowly so as not to upset the fragile truce she’d made with her gut. She patted her stomach gently, as if she could coax the baby into allowing her to keep her breakfast down.

_‘We’ve got four months of this shit still to go, kid; you got to work with me.’_ She tried to think that thought sternly, but even in her head it came out as rather fond. Of course she couldn’t bring herself to stay mad at Gendry’s kid for long.

Sansa handed her the letter before setting about disposing of the vomit, holding the pot like it was full of wildfire. Arya scanned the note, Gendry’s familiar hand a comforting sight after having gone months without him. To her continued chagrin, he insisted on placing his status as her husband before his title as lord; in formal missives, the most important title was always supposed to go before the other ones, but every time she tried to correct this mistake, he always smirked at her and insisted he had it the right way. 

Since the time he’d first begun learning his letters, he had become much more comfortable holding the pen; whereas before the nib often spattered ink or tore through the paper, now he wrote smoothly, the ink flowing neatly from letter to letter. There were several noticeable mistakes, however, where he’d clearly gotten flustered about how to spell a word or whether two words were supposed to be combined into one.

Normally, such mistakes never made it to the final letter: either Arya or Davos always proofread his letters for errors. This time neither one of them had been around to do so. Gendry could have always consulted the heavy tomes of spelling and grammar he kept by his desk, the most frequently used sections tabbed so he could find them easily, but clearly he had prioritized speed over appearances.

Seeing how Gendry had been worried enough about her to send off a letter he must have known was riddled with mistakes made a bubble of guilt rise in her throat. Arya had debated going to Storm’s End before Winterfell, but she knew that Gendry would realize what was wrong the moment he’d laid eyes on her. While what she had said to Sansa before was true- about having already made up her mind about keeping the baby the moment she found out she was pregnant- she hadn’t told her the whole story.

The cunning woman who confirmed that she was with child had been alarmed by the scar on her abdomen. She had warned Arya that a wound that deep could have pierced her womb, or could have healed wrong, creating a mass of scar tissue deep inside. If she was going to miscarry, she likely would have done so in the early days when the babe was almost undetectable; now that she was nearly halfway through the pregnancy the odds were much better, but the cunning woman’s words still weighed on her. Arya would need the advice of a maester and a midwife to ensure that not only was the baby healthy, but that she would have the strength necessary to deliver. 

That meant submitting herself to regular examinations, drinking foul herbal supplements, and possibly even going on bed rest. None of which were particularly thrilling, but she would steel herself for the good of the child.

_Her_ child. Hers and Gendry’s. Gods, it still felt so odd to think that, if a little thrilling as well. Though, the prospect of actually telling Gendry was less so. They hadn’t really talked about having children; Arya had erroneously assumed that the irregularity of her bleeds and the damage to her abdomen would prevent her from ever getting pregnant. She had seen Gendry interact with local children, however, and it was plain to see that he would make an amazing father. Other men always seemed to be obsessed with the idea of having sons, but Arya suspected Gendry would be particularly delighted with a daughter.

If the baby was a girl, Gendry would be sure to dote on her in all the ways that Arya typically didn’t care for. Gendry hadn’t had much growing up, so he’d likely want to make up for that by making sure their children would want for nothing. They might end up a tad spoiled if he wasn’t careful, but his kind heart and work ethic would keep that in check.

It was her own parenting skills that Arya worried wouldn’t be up to snuff. 

The night before, she’d had another wolf dream, this time where she walked through the wolfswood in Nymeria’s skin. Pearl had followed at her heels; her sister’s wolf, her daughter. Arya wondered what it would be like to walk the woods in her human skin, with her own little one at her side.

Nymeria hadn’t seemed particularly interested in her own offspring. Arya had seen cats who were far more defensive of their own litters. Perhaps it wasn’t that Nymeria didn’t care for her pups, but that she knew they were wolves; wild things, that flourished in adversity.

Once, Arya might have thought that was her, something untamable, unfit for a civilized life. Now that she’d returned to Winterfell, a place where the very walls gave her strength even when she felt at her lowest, she didn’t know how she ever left it so easily. Perhaps it was merely the messy emotions that came with her condition, and once her child was born she would be itching for adventure once again. For now, though, she found herself wanting to stay put; she wanted her child to be born inside the walls of her ancestral home. To know from the moment it took its first breaths that whatever surname it carried, it would always be a Stark.

As she rose and started dressing, she found herself wishing, not for the first time, to speak with Jon. Arya missed him fiercely, with the sort of longing that felt like a deep ache. The problem, however, was more than just one of geography; that yearning was tainted with the sour anger that had been festering ever since they had been reunited. At first, she’d been so overcome with joy at seeing her beloved brother that she hadn’t noticed all the ways he had changed, often not for the better. 

Jon had given away their home to his new lover, without a second thought. After every bloody thing Arya had done to get back there, after Sansa had been brutalized to reclaim their home. He had bent the knee to a foreign queen, and told them all to do the same. After Robb had been slaughtered for defending Northern independence. He saw Daenerys burn down the Red Keep, and had the gall to excuse her actions. Maybe Jon had found a way to turn a blind eye to the destruction, from high atop his dragon, but Arya had seen the mayhem on the ground, the terror in the smallfolk’s eyes. The whispers, that Aegon the Conqueror had come again.

Arya wanted to hold him and shake him by the shoulders, laugh with happiness and scream at him. How had he given up their family and home so easily? Did he forget that they were Starks of Winterfell, that the blood of their ancestors was worked into the very stone? Or had he simply decided to embrace the other side of his heritage, the family that cried for fire and blood and conquest?

Perhaps he had finally chosen to discard his dream of being Jon Stark, and become Aemon Targaryen. Only time would tell what the true implications of such a choice would be.

Sansa returned while Arya was busy rustling around in her packs, which she now realized had absolutely no clean clothing.

“Do you need to borrow something? I probably have a shirt somewhere that you can wear as a dress,” Sansa teased. Arya glared at her for it, which only sent her into giggles. Their height disparity, which had been evident from an early age, had only become more distinct into adulthood.

“Speak for yourself,” Arya groused. “You do realize that’s not a shift you’re wearing, right? It’s one of Theon’s shirts.” Sansa turned pink, but retained enough dignity to close her dressing gown tighter.

“I probably have something back in my rooms I can wear,” Arya said with a sigh, certain that whatever it was, it would be all stuffy and ladylike; she knew for a fact there was at least one dress that she’d purposefully left behind last time she’d visited, a piece that Marya Seaworth had made her as a gift. It wasn’t at all Arya’s style, but it had been so kind of Marya to make it for her, she couldn’t bring herself to come up with reasons not to wear it in Storm’s End. Much better to say she left it in another castle entirely.

“Here, take this robe; mornings here are much colder than in the Stormlands,” Sansa offered, handing her the garment in question. “Will I see you at breakfast?”

“Not unless you want to _see_ said breakfast, in a much less appetizing form!” Arya said, laughing as Sansa made a face. She then continued, more soberly, “I also have a letter to write. Gendry and I have a lot to talk about, and I'd rather it be said face to face.”

“So do Theon and I,” Sansa murmured. They were in for several conversations, none of which would be easy. But the night’s rest had given her clarity, and bolstered her faith in herself and her relationships. Arya would sort things out with Gendry. She and Theon would fix this.

And with any luck, they would be welcoming two new faces into their motley pack.

\---

Leagues away, Gendry was buried in Storm’s End’s forge, working out his anxieties on some poor, unsuspecting piece of metal. The last thing he had heard from Arya was that she had chosen to leave the _Lady Cat_ under Davos’ command for the remainder of the return journey, while she made an impromptu trip elsewhere. He’d half expected the letter to be some sort of joke, or that she’d change her mind; instead, when her ship docked she was nowhere to be found, just as she’d said.

Davos had looked at him apologetically, but hadn’t offered any insight into what the cause of this sudden journey was. Though, Gendry suspected the older man knew more than he was letting on, if for no other reason than because he’d learned long ago not to underestimate Ser Davos Seaworth.

He still hadn’t received a response from Sansa, and as much as he was tempted to brush it off as a case of no new being good news, he was still worried, as well as a little frustrated with Arya. It wasn’t as if Arya hadn’t disappeared for days on end before, sometimes even weeks. That was the price of loving a woman as wild as Arya. But such cost was hardly a trial; if she was any less wild, she wouldn’t be Arya.

This time felt different, however. She had never just _left_ without any warning, or indication as to her destination. 

As he often did when stressed, Gendry retreated to his beloved craft. This was a place where he felt absolutely confident in himself and his abilities; he never had to second guess whether he was making the right decision, or feel inadequate about his reading and writing. Currently he was continuing a project he had started several months ago, but had had little time to work on since then; it was a baby rattle, for Jon and Daenerys’ coming child.

Said child and its parents had been something of a sore spot for Arya for months now, and Gendry had been gently working her towards attempting some sort of reconciliation. He figured that a lovely present such as this could be a way to break the ice. Children always brought people together, right?

It was as Gendry worked away the rattle, striving to make something both beautiful and child-safe that could be treasured for years to come, that something began to gnaw at him. They had never properly discussed having children, though Sansa had told them that any child they had would be heir to the North. The injuries Arya had sustained to her abdomen could have prevented her from carrying a child, except he knew she still had the occasional bleed, which surely meant that pregnancy was possible? She would have told him, right?

Except, she never drank moon tea after they coupled, despite them not having talked about children. If she’d thought it was a risk she would certainly have talked to him.

Unless she’d thought there wasn’t, and had assumed he had too. And what if those assumptions had been proven wrong, while she was away from home? Arya was by no means a reckless person, but during her time on the run she had learned to prioritize self-preservation. If she’d found out something she hadn’t thought was possible, like a pregnancy, and had panicked over what his reaction would be… that could be just cause to flee to Winterfell, somewhere she always felt safe.

Gendry's fingers went numb, letting his tools fall carelessly to the table, and he rushed out the forge door. In his haste he left his workspace an absolute mess, something he never did, but this took precedence.

Davos clearly knew more than he was letting on, and it was time Gendry asked him about it outright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be the last chapter you see for a bit, as theonsa week is only a week away and I have to get to work! I hope you're all as excited for it as I am, I can't wait to see what everyone's been working on!


	4. Part IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special chapter warnings for discussion of abortion and discussion of pregnancy complications. There's some heavy stuff that gets talked about, but I've done my best to treat it all with respect.

Arya’s reflection glared back at her from the vanity mirror. It was as she had feared: the dress was even worse than she’d remembered. Marya Seaworth had obviously put a lot of thought into making it, despite the fact that she was not a particularly skilled seamstress. This wasn’t at all a reproach, merely a fact. Marya, like her husband, had grown up in poverty, where such a skill would have been seen as frivolous; she could make a decent frock, one that was warm and sturdy, but anything further was a luxury she couldn’t afford. Not to mention that as mother to seven boys, she’d barely been able to keep up with their roughhousing and overnight growth spurts, let alone practice her needlework.

However, as befitting her new status, Marya had been trying to learn this new skill, and her efforts had given Arya a newfound appreciation for Sansa’s sewing abilities. Marya had gone so far as to embroider weirwood leaves throughout the dress, having learned their significance from Arya; unfortunately, she had never seen a weirwood, and the end result looked more like misshapen oak leaves. Evidently, Arya hadn’t done that great a job describing weirwoods to her, but she definitely hadn’t said anything about acorns, which Marya had decided to add in. 

The end result was not great. But seeing as she’d been the one who ran off without any extra clothes, Arya supposed she only had herself to blame. Having managed to also turn up some trousers and a simple tunic in her search of the room, she eagerly shucked the offending dress in favor of them. They would do for now, but not much longer, if the tightness of the trousers’ waistband was any indication. She’d undone the drawstring completely and it still pinched; she would definitely have to visit a tailor soon, or risk Marya’s dress being the only thing she could comfortably wear.

Arya had already written up a letter to Gendry attempting to explain the situation, and asking him to come to Winterfell. She was torn between whether to tell him about the baby in the letter or wait until they spoke in person, but ultimately decided it was best to be upfront about it. Hopefully Gendry would see her honesty as reason enough to forgive her for worrying him so.

However, before she could send the letter, there was something else she had to do that she’d been putting off: meeting with Maester Wolkan. Growing up she had never been particularly opposed to the regular exams her mother made them all get, or at least no worse than the average child would be. It helped that Maester Luwin was a safe, thoroughly trusted figure in her life. He’d been there for her birth, after all; Arya had never known a life without him. 

The same couldn’t be said of Wolkan, despite Sansa’s apparent faith in the man to care for the castle’s inhabitants, especially Theon. Arya thought the maester might have been the one to stitch up her head after she killed the Night King, but everything after the battle had been such a haze that she couldn’t be certain.

She found Maester Wolkan in his chambers, seemingly engrossed in some old text. He startled when she cleared her throat, but recovered quickly.

“Good morning, Princess,” he greeted her warmly. “How may I help you?”

“I need to send a raven. To Storm’s End.” Arya said brusquely, attempting to hide her nerves.

“Yes, of course.” He took the proffered letter from her and set about choosing the proper raven for the job. Arya stood awkwardly off to the side, watching as he tied the little scroll to the chosen bird’s leg and sent it out the window. When Wolkan turned around, he seemed surprised to see her still standing there.

“Is there anything else you need, my lady?” he said hesitantly.

“I have a, a personal matter I need your help with. I… I’m pregnant, and there’s some concerns- um, complications, I suppose.”

“Oh,” the maester said, his eyes wide. He looked her up and down; Arya felt like squirming under his scrutinizing gaze, but she clenched her fists and held firm. “You’d best come over to my exam table, then. How far along are you? Is this your first pregnancy? What sort of complications are we talking about? Bleeding, headaches, spells?”

Arya moved to sit on the long wooden table he’d gestured her towards, her head spinning from his rapid questioning. Her feet dangled awkwardly as she tried to answer everything.

“The woman I spoke with, she said around five months- um, I’m not entirely sure, my bleeds are… sporadic. Definitely the first time. No bleeding, nothing like that… I-I think I should probably explain,” Arya took a breath, feeling immensely self-conscious about this whole thing. The only person who’d ever seen her scar was Gendry, if she didn’t count Lady Crane. “I have this scar on my stomach, from a knife wound.”

“Well then, I’d best have a look,” Wolkan said, his voice clipped and curt; then he took note of how withdrawn she seemed, and his expression softened. He was younger than Luwin had been, but he had the same sort of calm, capable aura. “You have nothing to fear, my lady, it isn’t my place to judge you; it is your health I’m most concerned with, and that of your child.”

“Alright.” Arya mumbled, her voice very small as she untied her loose dress. She felt her cheeks redden as she revealed the thin white scars that stretched across her swollen abdomen; Wolkan tried to keep his face smooth, but his horror was obvious.

“This is quite a wound, Princess.” Wolkan murmured, reaching out to probe at the scars; Arya fought to keep from flinching at his touch. He shot her a quick apologetic look before continuing with his examinations, his earlier shock slipping way to professionality.

“If the knife had hit any of your organs, you would not still be with us. How long was the blade?”

“Short, barely two inches,” Arya said, using her thumb and index finger to give a rough measurement. “But I was also wearing leathers under my clothes.”

“I suspect it went in at an angle, cutting muscle and fat but avoiding the abdominal cavity,” he mused, as he stepped back and encouraged her to re-cover her stomach. “Who tended to you?”

“A woman, a… a stranger. She found me and saved my life.” Arya said, keeping the explanation as simple as possible; even now, it still hurt to think of Lady Crane’s kindness, and her sacrifice.

“The gods were truly with you on that day.” The maester said reverently. Privately Arya agreed, but the thought gave her no comfort. Had the Many-Faced God chosen to spare her, knowing that she had a destiny to fulfill? If the Red Woman used her god’s power to bring Jon back to life, maybe the acolytes of the House of White and Black could do the same; though they clearly preferred the act of bestowing the gift of death, Arya wondered if they couldn’t also take it away.

Or maybe the answer was simpler than that: perhaps the cistern water carried other properties besides poison, a magic that altered her somehow. The first Faceless Men had been slaves, toiling away in the mines of Old Valyria; they could have brought the doomed land’s secrets with them to Braavos, preserved alongside rows and rows of faces.

“I suppose so.” Arya said with a shrug.

“Well, however you survived, we are all very lucky that you did,” Wolkan declared, breaking her out of her reverie. “Given that you’ve made it this far along without any bleeding or fainting, I’m optimistic.”

“The cunning woman said there could have been damage to my womb, or scarring inside.”

“It’s possible, but I’m afraid there’s no known way to see into a body and determine such a thing,” Wolkan admitted. “For now, I suggest we approach this like any risky pregnancy: I want to keep a close eye on your progress, along with making some changes to your diet and activity level. Lots of fruits and vegetables, low salt, no wine or mead. Bed rest can actually worsen your health if prescribed too early, so that’ll be a last resort, but in general you’ll need to avoid any stressful or high-impact activities. I strongly advise you to remain here until the birth rather than risk travelling back to the Stormlands; I’d also like to consult other healers, to ensure that we do everything we can for you and your baby.”

Arya hesitated in the face of his confidence; his words should have been reassuring, but there was something else that worried her. But could she trust him with it? 

“Maester, there’s something else,” she started. “Something that almost no one else knows about.”

Wolkan looked taken aback, his brow furrowed. “As a maester I have sworn to keep the confidence of anyone who comes to me for help; if I’m to help you, I must know.”

“My sister trusts you completely, but if I’m to be honest, I still haven’t made up my mind. You served the Boltons before us.” Arya watched how the maester’s face fell at her sharp words.

“Yes. I’m not proud of it, but I don’t deny it,” the old man sighed. “The, the things that I saw… what he did, to Lady Walda and Lord Theon, a-and the Queen… if I was a better man I would have done something, but I’m not. I justified my inaction, told myself that I didn’t have a choice; I’ll spend the rest of my life wondering if I could have spared them some pain, or if it would only have made things worse. 

“Her Majesty knows this, yet she’s chosen to trust me anyways. She is truly a remarkable leader. I want to do my duty for the North and House Stark; I know it can’t make up for my past failures, but I won’t repeat them.”

Arya scrutinized him, looking for any sign of dishonesty; whatever else the Waif had done to her, she’d taught her how to play the lying game well.

“Alright then; but I charge that on your oaths to your Order and to my family, you will keep this to yourself. My aunt, Lyanna Stark… I’m told I look a lot like her, including in stature. She died in childbirth; I don’t know many details, just that there was a lot of blood.” 

Bran’s voice- the Three-Eyed Raven’s- had been completely emotionless when he told her as such, but Arya could still see it in her mind. She had nightmares of it sometimes, of Lyanna on the ground, the pool of blood around her waist growing larger until it surrounded her; and when the blood reached her head, her face became Arya’s.

As she continued, she started to lose control of her careful mask, her voice growing shaky. “A-and my husband, he’s much taller than I, so I suppose the child might take after him. What if, if it grows too big, a-and it gets stuck, and I-I can’t-”

“Princess, please, listen to me,” Wolkan cut her off, derailing her spiraling thoughts. “There are many things which can impact a pregnancy. Tell me now, your lady mother bore five healthy babes; did you ever hear about her having difficulties while pregnant, or miscarrying?”

“No,” Arya admitted. “I was too young to remember Bran’s birth, but Ric- my youngest brother, my mother was fine while carrying him. I think she tired more easily? But she seemed to have plenty of energy even towards the end. Father was always telling her to rest, but she wouldn’t hear of it; she said she had a castle to run, and she couldn’t do so with him coddling her.”

Despite her fears, the memory brought a small smile to her lips. Ned had always doted on his wife during her pregnancies, and likely would have insisted on being by her side during labor, if Catelyn hadn’t ordered he take his fretting and make himself useful elsewhere. Arya supposed she could see the merit in that, but she’d want Gendry to be there so he could watch their baby take its first breaths; and, if necessary, say his goodbyes.

“Then that tells us more about what to expect than your aunt’s case does,” Wolkan said firmly. “You say that she was small, but we have no way of knowing if that had any effect on her health. There are many factors which can impact a pregnancy, one of them being stress. Your main focus needs to be on taking good care of yourself and your child; not on your aunt’s fate, of which we know far too little to make speculations.”

Relief flooded through her body at his words, so overwhelming that she almost didn’t feel the prick of tears in her eyes. She’d faced death so many times she’d become accustomed to it; a lingering shadow just waiting to take her, an inevitability despite how many times she’d fought it back. At her lowest, she might have accepted it, even welcomed it. But no longer.

She wanted to see her baby born and placed at her breast, to feel Gendry’s arms around them both; she wanted to live.

Arya squeezed her eyes shut in an attempt to dam the growing tears, but they spilled out anyways, warm little rivers running down her cheeks. She felt Wolkan take her hand; his palm wasn’t calloused like Gendry’s, but his fingers were strong as he gave her hand a comforting squeeze, and to her surprise she found herself gripping back.

\---

Despite Sansa’s earlier determination to set things right with Theon, doubt began to creep in the closer she got to the great hall. She’d been correct in assuming that she would find him there: their duties meant they often took their morning meal in the small council chamber, making breakfast in the great hall a pleasant, unharried experience.

From one of the hall’s side entrances, Sansa easily spotted Theon’s familiar bronze curls among the sparse crowd of Winterfell denizens. He sat with his back towards Sansa, talking with Brienne of all people; if she hadn’t felt so anxious, she would have been pleased to see two of the most important people in her life actually being companionable for once. While they often seemed prickly towards each other, Sansa saw that they actually had a lot more in common.

Sansa hadn’t intended to eavesdrop, but they were seated close enough that she could hear snippets of their conversation. It sounded like they were having, of all things, a theological discussion.

“-true the Ironborn only have one god?”

“Just one that we worship, anyways. It’s simpler like that, I don’t know how you keep all of your different prayers straight.”

“It’s not so hard if that’s what you learn as a child. You were also raised knowing the old gods, right?”

“Aye, but that’s so much more informal, not at all like your septs. No incense or long worship songs; they don’t even have names to tell them all apart by.”

“Now _that_ sounds confusing! I like the idea of worshipping outside, though. The godswood seems so peaceful.”

“It is, but it was… strange, to go from the islands to worshipping in the godswood. I got used to it eventually, but I forgot a lot about my own faith and people. More than I realized, at the time.”

Sansa felt immensely guilty at this, both for listening in and for what Theon’s admission meant. It was still hard for her to reconcile Theon’s experiences with her own idyllic memories of their childhood. It had been easy to dismiss her father and Maester Luwin’s attempts to reeducate Theon as a necessary solution to his savage upbringing, instead of seeing it for what it really was: a sort of cultural cleansing.

Ned had already taken Theon from his home: had it really been necessary that he purge the Islands from his soul?

Theon and Brienne’s conversation fell away as this realization made her head spin. As Sansa fought to get herself under control, her eyes met with Brienne’s; the knight was careful not to alert Theon to her presence, but managed to get across a subtle message with just a look: a gentle, but firm ‘go away’.

_‘Gods, what am I doing?’_ Sansa berated herself, turning on her heel and leaving as quietly as she could. 

She wandered the halls without much thought, blind to the movement of people around her, until a sharp blast of cold air brought her back to her senses; her feet had led her out into the courtyard, and from there into the godswood. The cloak she wore wasn’t nearly heavy enough to be traipsing about the grounds, but she scarcely felt the winter air’s bite.

Fresh snow crunched under her boots as she made her way through the pristine ground. It had been years now since the sacred place had known any violence, but in her mind’s eye Sansa could still see the devastation of the battle with the dead; the ground a grimy stew of snow and mud, splashed with the blood of fallen Ironborn and Karstark forces.

Theon’s broken form, lying in a heap at the base of the heart tree.

When he had come back to her, he’d pledged to fight for Winterfell, for the home they had once shared. Except it had never really been his home, not in the way it was hers; her father may have fed and clothed him, had him educated and trained along with the rest of them, given him the freedom to come and go as he pleased. But under those trappings of care, he’d still been a prisoner.

For better or worse, Sansa had come a long way from the sheltered girl she’d been, and after her time under the Lannisters’ so-called care she could easily recognize the parallels between her situation and Theon’s. She’d avoided thinking too much about it for fear of toppling this little corner of peace they’d managed to scrape out; now it seemed the consequences of that blissful denial had finally come to fruition.

Her hand drifted to brush against the heart tree, the silvery bark disconcertingly smooth on her ungloved fingers. The heart tree’s solemn expression reminded her unnervingly of her father’s face, though it carried none of the warmth he had. The weirwood looked back at her with its red eyes, its carved features seemingly just waiting for her to speak. A bug had gotten caught in the gloppy sap around the mouth; now it was trapped there, preserved until the death of the tree or the end of time, whichever came first. 

“Oh Father, why?” Sansa whispered, imagining the weirwood passing along her words to whatever afterlife Ned Stark dwelt in. “I know you had to stop the Greyjoy’s rebellion, but why did Theon have to suffer for his crimes? Why did you try to strip the Islands from him, after he’d already lost so much?”

Balon Greyjoy as king would have been disastrous, both for his own people and the villages unlucky enough to live on the coast. The Ironborn tradition of reaving and raping was monstrous; Sansa could never defend it, and she was glad that Yara had put a stop to it. But there was so much more to the Iron Islands than that, little glimpses she’d just started to have into their culture. What songs did workers sing to pass the time, what games did children play? What stories did women tell their babes?

Sansa thought she hadn’t understood why Theon insisted his baseborn son be sent to the Islands instead of coming to Winterfell, when deep down she’d understood all too well. In her own hurt and anger, she’d excused his words as an attempt to get a rise out of her; but the best lies always had a kernel of truth to them. Did Theon truly still see Winterfell as his prison, even after he came back to her?

_‘Is a Stark still his gaoler?’_

The treacherous thought brought a gasp to her lips and she wrenched her hand from the weirwood as if it had burnt her, flying up to catch the sob before it could escape her mouth. Something stabbed in her chest where her heart should have been. All this time that Sansa had been taunted by the fear of losing Theon, she’d thought it was death that threatened to take him; now she wondered if he even wanted to stay in the first place, or was she just as bad as-

“_No!_” Sansa cried, tearing her hands from her mouth. “He loves me, he chose me.” 

They had said vows, sworn their love for all the gods to hear. No one had forced Theon to come back, to stay; though so much of his life had often been dictated by others, this was something he had decided he wanted. Sansa wouldn’t let her guilt over her father’s actions strip Theon of his right to make his own choices. 

Hiking up her skirts, she walked back the same path she’d taken out. She couldn’t let herself give in to fear, let the past dictate their future; this was a choice she and Theon had to make together.

\---

After breakfast, Theon settled into his favorite quiet corner of Winterfell’s library: close to the hearth, out of the way with the library door still in sight. Despite her earlier clinginess, Pearl had been conspicuously absent ever since his breakfast with Brienne.

Lately, he’d been doing research into Skagos and its people. The Skagosi had long been derided as savages, but the North’s improved relationship with the wildlings had made Theon question whether this depiction was deserved. It was still said that the Skagosi practiced cannibalism and human sacrifice, though the same accusations had been lobbed at the Dothraki, and they had proven to be baseless; if the same was the case with the Skagosi, then perhaps efforts could be made towards establishing trade relations with the island.

He had made some headway in his research, but his thoughts kept drifting back to Sansa. In the clear light of day, he was absolutely mortified by his actions; it would probably take Sansa a while to forgive him. After the way he had behaved, he couldn’t blame her.  
However, any illusions he might have had about Sansa staying away were soon dispelled by her appearance in the doorway. She looked surprisingly windswept, with a dusting of snowflakes still clinging to her hair.

_‘Had she been outside?’_ Theon wondered with concern, noting a slight shiver travel through her frame. He wanted to ask her, comfort her if need be, but the energy from their fight and his own shame hung thick in the air between them.

“I don’t mean to intrude,” Sansa started awkwardly, looking around the otherwise empty library. “I just figured I’d find you here, and… ah, if you’re busy, I can go-”

“No!” Theon said hastily, scrambling to make room on the bench next to him. “I was just- that is, I also… um, please sit.”

Hesitantly, Sansa joined him, her usual grace tinged with a stiffness she never had around him. Theon shifted nervously in his spot, worrying a thumb along his folded hands; if the way she smoothed her already impeccable skirts was any indication, the feeling was mutual. He was bolstering the courage to beg for her forgiveness, when she beat him to it.

“I’m so sorry, Theon,” she blurted out. Theon froze, lips parted. This wasn’t how he’d expected this conversation to start; he had been prepared her to say any number of things, but not that.

“Sans-” he started, but she cut him off.

“Wait, please, let me finish,” she said, pausing until he gave a curt nod, his lips pursed. She drew in a shaky breath. “What happened yesterday… I obviously hurt you, and I’m deeply sorry for that. I-I lost my temper, but I shouldn’t have yelled at you. When I- the way you looked at me-”

A hitch caught in her throat, and Theon was horrified to see tears welling in her eyes.

“Oh Sans, it’s alright,” he soothed, moving a hand to rest in the space between them; she snatched it up immediately and gave it a squeeze with trembling fingers.

“No, it’s not,” she said thickly. “We don’t solve our problems by shouting at each other. That isn’t the sort of relationship we have, and I never want us to become like that.”

“We won’t,” he soothed. “I said some awful things and I’m so sorry for it, I don’t blame you for reacting the way you did. It’s fine, you know how I get sometimes.”

Sansa let out a sigh, obviously frustrated, and for a moment he thought she’d pull away, but instead she gripped even tighter.

“It’s not ‘fine’, nothing about this is _‘fine!’_ What I said about your son,”- he tried not to flinch at that, with only some success- “it clearly upset you, but I don’t know _why_. And I’ve been trying to understand, and it’s all so mixed up…” 

Sansa struggled to catch her breath, pulling his hand up to press a fervent kiss to it. Theon desperately wanted to say something, anything that would put her at ease; but given the way she’d responded, he decided it was best to keep quiet.

“What you said about being a prisoner… this is your _home_, Theon, you know that, right? What Robert and my father did, bringing you here, and now me wanting to bring your son… that you might see them as the same, it never crossed my mind, a-and to think of it now, it just _kills_ me. If, if you ever wanted to leave Winterfell, I wouldn’t stop you- I don’t want you to go, but I would _never_ force you to stay here, and I need you to know that.”

Tears ran down her cheeks in full force now, and she made no effort to stop them. Gently, he brought his free hand up to cup her face, the flushed skin warm against his palm; her eyes fluttered shut as she turned her cheek into his touch.

“I know that, Sans, I swear,” he breathed. How could he even begin to explain the complicated tangle of emotions he had towards Winterfell? “Everything about my childhood here, it’s a mess. But that has no bearing on how I feel about you. This is exactly where I want to be, with you. I’d follow you to the ends of the earth, so long as you’ll have me.”

“Always,” she swore, kissing his palm. She released the hand she’d been clutching in favor of pulling him into a hug, burying her face in his shoulder. He eagerly held her in return, and felt a shudder race through him; he thought it came from her, at first, only to realize he was the one trembling. Theon wanted to melt into this embrace and never let go.

They still had much to discuss, now that they had broken through the lingering hurt of their fight, but Theon was loathe to let her go; he compromised by tucking Sansa into his side and leaning them back against the wall, resting his cheek on her head.

When Theon spoke again, his voice came out sounding far more confident than he felt. “I didn’t mean what I said about your intentions towards the- my son. I know you only meant well, and I’m so sorry for lashing out like that. You caught me off-guard; I had no idea you’d even been looking into it.”

Sansa turned her head up just enough to look at him, her arms still wrapped firmly around his waist. “I shouldn’t have kept it from you, that wasn’t fair. I didn’t want to tell you unless I was certain.”

“I understand that now. It was just so much to take in all at once. After what was done to me, I thought that possibility gone.” Theon explained.

“So, what happened?” she prodded. “Shock aside, I’d assumed you’d be pleased to know you had a son- obviously I was wrong on that count- but you were so hurt, and angry. And since then I’ve been trying to understand why, but I’m drawing a blank.”

“I… you know what I did to those boys. The ones I killed in Bran and Rickon’s place.” The words spilled out of him in a rush of shame and misery. “I tried so hard to justify it at the time; I told myself that it was necessary, that I wasn’t the one to actually _do_ it. But I did it, as sure as if I wielded the blade myself. There’s no absolving me of that.”

Theon tensed, expecting her to pull away from him, but instead Sansa cupped his jaw and forced him to meet her gaze.

“The fact that you feel this way tells me all I need to know,” she said firmly. “It was an awful, stupid choice; but it’s done, and there’s nothing that can be done to change it.”

He didn’t deserve her kindness, not after the senseless cruelty he’d committed against those innocent boys. “I don’t understand how you can trust me around a child, knowing what I’ve done.” Theon whispered. 

“What would you have me do? What punishment could I give you greater than what you’ve already served?” Sansa asked. The way she said it, with the sharp coldness of her office ringing through, caused a shudder to rise through his body; but her arms around him were warm, and her eyes were filled with unending love. “I will tell you a thousand times a day, for as long as we live, that you are a good man and I love you. But you need to work towards believing me.” 

A lump had risen in his throat, rendering him mute. Theon could only give a nod, astounded by her kindness. Most days he almost believed that for all of his mistakes he had proven himself a good person; on days when that seemed nearly impossible, he had Sansa to remind him. 

Sansa stroked his cheek fondly and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips, before straightening, adopting a more serious posture like when she spoke with her lords; she kept their hands clasped, however, a subtle reminder that they were in this together.

“Now then. Lord Royce tells me that your son is such a sweet child, despite all he’s been through. I think he deserves the chance to know his father; and you deserve the chance to know him.”

Theon managed a small shake of the head, feeling admittedly impressed by her persistence. “I don’t know how you do it. I wish I had your strength.”

“I don’t feel very strong,” Sansa admitted. “All I seem to do lately is worry.”

“About what?”

“It’d probably be easier to list the things I don’t worry about. Gods, I don’t know where to begin. The kingdom, Jon and Bran and Arya, you.”

“Me?” he gaped at her.

“Yes of course _you!_” she exclaimed. “Theon, I have been utterly terrified ever since you took that fall. I tried to hide it, but it’s haunted me ever since. You were in such pain, and there was absolutely nothing I could do! And then with this news, that’s another thing to fret about.”

“The boy? I thought you said he was a sweet lad. What are you afraid of?”

Sansa squirmed a little, a blush rising in her cheeks. “I know this must sound silly, but, I’m afraid he’ll hate me.”

Theon failed to keep the startled laugh from escaping his lips. He tried to look as apologetic as possible in the face of her indignant glare, but the very idea was just so ludicrous to him.

“Sans, that’s not going to happen,” he reassured.

“It could, you don’t know!” she protested. “He could find me mean, or, or overbearing!”

“He won’t hate you, it’s just not possible. If anything,” Theon hesitated, suddenly aware of the vulnerable turn his thoughts had taken. “I’m afraid he’ll love you.”

Sansa frowned. “I don’t understand…”

“I know how it sounds, but… I can’t give you a child,” he said softly. “And for all that I’ve come to terms with what was taken from me, I still struggle with that fact. A queen needs heirs. I worry that, that you’ll see what you could have and you’ll want someone else, someone whole.”

“Oh gods, look at the two of us,” Sansa said with a wry smile. “That will _never_ happen, Theon. I know it as surely as I know that the sun rises in the east and sets in the west, or that Arya will give me grey hairs before I turn thirty!”

He appreciated what she was trying to do, but the idea was still unfathomable. There was no doubt in his mind that Sansa would make an amazing mother, the sort that her children adored and made anyone who threatened them cower. That was plain to see in how she treated her people, noble and common folk alike; it seemed wrong to keep that love from the world, just for Theon’s sake. 

“It still feels like I’m depriving you of something. You always wanted to have children of your own, and you could still have that. To make a choice like that-”

“Is mine to make.” Sansa interrupted him. She still held his hand, but part of her seemed to retreat inwards; though it had been a while since she’d needed to wear the leather bodices she once preferred, there were other means of protecting herself. Once, she had admitted to him that when Joffrey had had her beaten, her mind would sometimes slip away. It had been frightening the first time, but then became a strange sort of comfort; the bruises and cuts would heal on their own, in ways she wasn’t certain her mind could. It happened other times, too: when the Lannisters forced her to marry Tyrion, or Littlefinger leered at her in such a way that made it obvious what he wanted. When Ramsay had his way with her.

Seeing the flicker of that now frightened Theon greatly; but more than that, it made him angry. How dare their ghosts try and hurt her even now, when she was supposed to be at peace? But such a response could frighten her when she was like this, so he took another approach. He nudged her knee with his own and rubbed soothing circles on the back of her hand with his thumb, all the while trying to project as much love and support as he could with his gaze. 

“Alright then,” he said gently. “I’ll admit I don’t fully understand, but I trust you. I won’t ask again.”

“N-no, I,” she stumbled as she regained control over herself. “There’s something you should know. I’ve never told you this before- I didn’t mean to keep it secret, there was just never a time to bring it up. After we escaped and Brienne got me to Castle Black, she went to the local village and got me some moon tea.”

Theon blinked dumbly as the full weight of her words sank in. “You were-”

“I don’t know,” she said hastily. “I didn’t want to take the chance… I had a heavy bleed after, but there was nothing- there was no way to tell. But the thought of it, it haunts me. If I had been- I don’t know if I could have loved it. After everything he did to me, and to you. What does that say about me, if I couldn’t love my own child? O-or, what if I _did?_ Love the child of the man who violated me?”

“If you had been with child, I don’t think you would have hated it. I known how much love you have in your heart, how gentle you are. It would have been wholly yours, not at all his.” A sudden thought occurred to him then, one that brought a horrendous ache to his chest. 

“Do… do you regret it?”

She sniffed and scrubbed at her reddened eyes with her free hand. “Sometimes, just a little. It’ll cross my mind at odd times, and I’ll wonder what might have been. But then I think about all those awful things he did to me, and how sick and weak I was when I finally got to the Wall… a pregnancy would have killed me, I’m certain of it.”

The conviction in her voice made him shudder. Women died in childbirth even when they were healthy and cared for, let alone beaten and raped within an inch of their life. She could have bled out, hurting and frightened, while he was oblivious, an ocean away. Theon nearly started to drift off himself, but Sansa made a shaky gasp, bringing him back. She’d slapped a hand over her mouth in an attempt to contain her sobs, but he gently drew it away; she had kept all of this in for far too long.

“And it just- it makes my skin _crawl_, to think about it. I know it was the right choice, despite everything, but,” her voice cracked, the words barely audible. “Is it wrong of me, to still… wonder?”

“No, not at all,” he breathed. “Seven hells, but that’s a burden to have carried. I don’t… I wish I could have helped.”

“You did, and you still do,” she said through a watery smile. “So now you see? Maybe if circumstances were different, I’d come around to the idea. But they aren’t, a-and I can’t. Even if I still think about it from time to time.”

Looking at her then, reddened and tear-stained, Theon imagined what it would have been like if they could have had a child of their own; a world where her flush was caused by the effort of bringing their child into the world, and those tears were ones of pure joy as she held their baby for the first time.

In that moment, he grieved for the children they would never have.

“We would have made the most beautiful babies,” he choked out. “With red hair, and eyes like the sea. They would’ve looked like your mother. They would’ve looked like Robb. Gods, I-I wish, I _wish_ I could give you that.”

Sansa thumbed away his tears, and drew him in until their foreheads met. 

“I know you do. I know. But I don’t need that,” she swore. “You give me so much more. This, right here? This is all I need.”

Later, after they both had calmed down some, Sansa would remember there was something else she had to tell Theon.

(“What you said, about heirs? That won’t be an issue.”)

But for now, they just held each other, and worked to enjoy what was, instead of mourning what might have been.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr at gingersprites, hit me up there for more of my bullshit.


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